


All Is Not Lost

by breadthief (trufield)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Autistic Javert, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Porn, Guaranteed happy ending, Hospitalization, Javert Lives, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Seine, Recovery, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, guys getting through issues, paraplegic javert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22132600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufield/pseuds/breadthief
Summary: Accompanying Cosette on her daily hospital visit, Jean encounters someone he never thought he would see again - someone who he neverwantedto see again. Yet with Cosette becoming distant, the mystery of Javert's admission to hospital might be just the distraction Jean needs.Can Javert let go of his pride and get himself on the road to recovery? His life will never be the same again but maybe it’s Jean Valjean, of all people, who will help him see that life is still worth living.[now with absoultely gorgeous cover art courtesy of madmerchant]
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 116
Kudos: 166





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another longfic! Prepare for extreme slow-burn.  
> This fic will deal with some difficult issues and sensitive subjects. There will be appropriate warnings at the start of a chapter if necessary  
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> thanks to avatoh and Emm for betaing :>
> 
> Please look at this [incredible cover art from madmerchant](https://random-red-ramblings.tumblr.com/post/633400170885906432/madmerchant-i-have-the-honor-and-delight-of)

The past few days had been a distressed blur of high emotions. Sure, it was clear how angry the young people were, the unrest was palpable and there had been plenty of warnings on the news about expected protests. No one could have predicted how the protests had escalated. Certainly no one expected the aggression of the police when the protesters refused to back down. 

Jean’s cynicism, which was rarely expressed nowadays, told him that was _exactly_ what he should have expected from the police. Someone threw a brick and a taser responded, and so it began. Batons and riot shields and then, ultimately, a water cannon. Jean shuddered at the memory. 

He avoided the police wherever possible due to bad experiences, but to go into the midst of a protest that felt more like a prison riot had been diving in at the deep end. He was sure that his arm wasn't broken but it still ached from the force of the baton blow he'd caught. The hospital had enough to deal with without him bothering them with a mere bruised arm. 

He focused on the hospital waiting room where he sat to keep his mind in the present and not have current experiences blend into his fraught past. The room was full of concerned parents, siblings and friends waiting to see how their loved ones fared today. As far as Jean could tell, most patients had broken bones or concussions, thankfully nothing serious, although… He crossed himself at the memory. There had been one death reported. No details had been released yet. Jean sent a silent prayer to the family. 

Cosette sat silently beside him. He was afraid to look at her, afraid to speak to her, feeling only guilt at what a terrible parent he had been to upset her so. Why had he ever thought himself capable of raising a daughter? He would weep if he wasn't so exhausted. 

“I will wait and give you a lift home?” he risked asking when she was called in to see Marius Pontmercy. “Take as long as you need.”

He was relieved at her nod and then he was alone on his uncomfortable plastic chair to reflect on his mistakes. He should have trusted her more and given her more freedoms. It made him sick to think she might have felt trapped in their home, that he had become a jailer. He shuddered. That had never been his intent. He had only wanted to protect her. It broke his heart to know she had learnt to be so secretive, hiding things from him. It made him feel like a tyrant. 

Jean would never have known if he hadn't caught her trying to sneak out to join the protest. Thank God he had caught her! He did not want to imagine his girl caught up in that mess. He quickly reminded himself she wasn't ‘his’ girl at all, and certainly wasn't now.

It was the first time he could ever recall them having an argument. How heated and passionate she was! Despite his sadness, Jean was still proud of her standing by her beliefs and articulating herself so well. Then it had all come out in her heightened emotional state and frustration at him: the friends Jean had no idea of, some of whom had organised this very protest; the online communities they were part of; a whole life that had been hidden from him. She was _dating_ a boy!

Jean had been so hurt to have been shut out of these developments that he said some things he regretted. He forbid her to see this boy, to contact these people, and he even confiscated her phone and her laptop. A tyrant indeed. 

He realised his mistake soon enough, that he was behaving in a way that would confirm her fears as to why she had not confided in him in the first place. He had meekly gone to her door and apologised profusely, told her it was shock, and that she should come downstairs so that they could track the protest on the news and maybe she could tell him about these friends, if she wanted. 

It had taken half an hour, but Cosette had joined him on the sofa, sitting painfully far away, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. She accepted the hot chocolate he offered, and did not speak for some time. 

It wasn't until he ventured to ask if Marius was a good lad, if he treated her right, did she begin to tell him about this boy. It was plain she was smitten, even in her sadness the thought of him made her smile. 

_Would you invite him to dinner next week?_ Jean had asked hesitantly but before she could respond, all hell broke loose on the TV. 

Then it had been silent horror, staring at the screen as everything unraveled. Cosette broke their silence with a noise of anguish and the tears began to fall. Jean knew what he had to do then. The only other time he had seen her so upset was when Fantine had died, and he had vowed to always keep her happy, loved, and never alone. 

He had gone out, pleading to Cosette to stay in the house, and driven to the protest. He had to leave the car on the next street over but dared to leave the engine running and all the doors open. Then he had shoulder barged through the police line and worked on pulling the injured back to his car. He had driven them to the hospital, not wanting the police to find and charge them first. All he heard on the drive were the sniffles and sobs of pain and fear. They were so young, just trying to do right and not knowing how, full of the same hope and passion that he had seen in Cosette. They didn't deserve to be hindered by a criminal record for the rest of their lives. 

He had made as many trips as he was able, until the police got the upper-hand. Perhaps he should have stayed. Perhaps it had been cowardice to flee, fearing arrest again. Something else on his record wouldn't harm him as much as it would hurt the future of these kids. 

Cosette had gone to bed by the time he had returned. She hardly spoke to him at all over the next few days, but she was shocked and distressed so Jean would wait until she was ready. 

He had taken her to the hospital every day since to see her friends, the ones who had already been discharged visited too. Jean did not meet any of them; he allowed Cosette into the rooms alone and he would collect her when visiting hours were over.

Marius was one who had not been discharged yet. From what Jean understood he had a broken arm and a serious concussion the doctors wanted him to recover from before he went back home. A dark, petty part of Jean thought he might have deserved it but he was quick to shake that thought away. 

They had been coming to the hospital for three days now, and in the time Cosette spent visiting, Jean busied himself making his own visits. He rose from his seat to speak to the woman at the desk when there was no longer anyone waiting in line. 

“Hello again, Monsieur!” She smiled and Jean smiled hesitantly in return. 

He always asked to see those who did not have anyone visiting. Hospital could be a lonely, scary place and on that first day Jean had wanted to make sure all of the kids from the protest had contacted someone. He had offered to do it for the ones who were too scared to tell their parents or the ones who were suspicious and did not want to give their details to any authority. 

The day after that, he had seen some other patients, unrelated to the protests. He prayed at the bedsides of the comatose, visited old folks who didn't have friends to visit any longer and families that were too busy or lived too far away, and Marie - a poor girl who was not much older than Cosette who had distanced herself from her loved ones and tried to end her life. How Jean had wanted to hug Cosette close to him after talking to that young woman! But he could not.

Today, the receptionist had already prepared him a list of names and rooms. He thanked her as he took it. He did not look at the paper, already knowing he wished to see Marie and ask how she was feeling. Hopefully she would give him someone to contact today. 

Much to his relief, when he looked inside the room there were two people, a man and a woman, by her bed holding and kissing her hands, wiping their eyes. Her parents, no doubt. He retreated before he was seen and checked his list. His eyes scanned the room numbers for the one closest to his current location, but a name caught his eye and made his breath catch in his throat. 

> _Javert_

The list only ever had the name someone wished to be referred to as, he was never given a first name and a last name, or told why they were in the hospital for confidentiality reasons. Just one name and a room number. But he'd never heard the name ‘Javert’ other than one man he had known in the moments of his past which Jean would rather forget. 

Curiosity got the better of him. If it was the man he had known, the only thing to fear were bad memories. Javert could not do anything to him, especially not from a hospital bed. Most importantly of all, this man had been listed as being in need of company and Jean could not turn his back on such a request. 

Javert was located in the ICU. This not only concerned Jean, but gave him no indication as to why Javert was in the hospital. It must be serious, possibly life-threatening, and Jean did not quite know what he felt, in addition to the worry for another in pain. 

Jean approached the first bed, a woman who had a friend visiting, and politely cleared his throat. 

“Sorry to interrupt, I'm looking for Javert? I was told he was in this room.”

The woman in the bed looked a little sad, before a hopeful smile flickered over her face. She pointed to the bed at the far end of the room with the privacy curtain drawn around it. 

“Are you a friend of his? He isn't doing well… I'm glad there's someone to see him.”

Jean merely nodded and gave his thanks before approaching the curtain. He reached out his hand, but did not touch it. He realised he was shaking. 

“... Javert?” The name came out as a cautious whisper but there was no reply. “Javert?” He repeated more audibly. Still no answer. 

He pulled the curtain open just enough to look in. If reading the name had taken his breath away, what he saw nearly floored him. 

There was no doubt that the man asleep before him was the Javert he had known, yet at the same time, Jean hardly recognised him. Javert's eyes and cheeks were sunken, his usually sleek, neat hair was tangled, and stubble that threatened to become a beard covered his chin. Jean then became aware of the tubes and machines. There was a ventilator among them but thankfully Javert did not appear to need it at this time. 

Jean wondered what could have happened to him. He felt no vicious joy in another's suffering, no matter the pain they might have caused him. Besides, it had been many years since he and Javert had seen each other, and despite Javert's thoughts to the contrary, Jean had always believed that everyone was capable of change. 

Jean sat in the chair at Javert's bedside and clasped his hands in prayer. He would pray for Javert's health and speedy recovery, just like he did for the other patients. Once he was finished, Jean slipped out from the privacy curtain, with one final glance back at the man in the bed. He seemed to be in a deep, unnatural sleep, and Jean was left disturbed at the sight of this once powerful, immovable man left so vulnerable. 

Jean quickly left the room, taking a moment to lean against the wall of the corridor and collect himself. He delved a still trembling hand into his pocket to retrieve his list. What he needed to do now was help those who needed it, he did not have the capacity to think of Javert right now. 

As he made his way to the next room, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He quickly pulled it out, ready to drop his plans to take Cosette back home. 

> _Going for coffee with Joly and the guys after visiting. He’ll drop me back home._

No emojis. No kiss. Jean closed his eyes against the sorrow that threatened to swallow him. He reminded himself that it was normal for teenage girls to go out with their friends and be embarrassed about showing affection to their parents. Wasn't it?

He didn't know how to respond. His first thought was _alright Sweetheart, see you later x_ but that sounded too patronising now. A simple _ok_ sounded too dismissive. In the end he left it unanswered. 

Meeting the other patients did distract him and lift his spirits a little. He was able to spend more time with them knowing that he did not need to take Cosette home. But when visiting hours were over he was reluctant to return home. Was it lonelier to have Cosette there but distant, or not at home at all?

He sighed, not knowing the answer, and detoured to shop for groceries instead. He traipsed around the aisles listlessly, noting Cosette’s favourite foods as he passed them. Would it be too much to cook one of her favourite meals? He didn't know the answer to that either. He felt just like when she had first come into his life with all of his fumbling first steps of trying to be a father, except with none of the wonder, excitement, and joy. He wondered bitterly if he had learnt nothing of parenting at all in these ten years. 

He went through the motions of the checkout by rote, bagging up his purchases without really looking, and paying no attention to the cost before he shoved his card in the reader. He did, of course, pay attention to the road on the drive home. 

It was only when he was packing the food away into the appropriate places did he notice the chocolate bar. He had always brought one back for Cosette from the weekly food shop ever since they had first known each other. Now he felt ridiculous for such a tradition. She was seventeen, not seven. She could have all the chocolate she wanted and buy it herself, it was not such a special thing. How long has she humoured him babying her? He shoved the chocolate in the cupboard he had been stacking tins into, and promptly closed it. 

\-----

The dinner was keeping warm on the stove when Cosette arrived home. 

“Ah- how is Marius?” Jean attempted as Cosette entered the kitchen. 

“The doctor says he can go home tomorrow. I'm- I'll be going with him to see him settled.”

“Of- of course.”

He took the bowls out of the cupboard and turned the stove off, ready to serve up their food. 

“Oh, um, Dad? I already ate. Sorry. I should've let you know. It's just- everyone wanted to get pizza and-”

“It's fine!” Jean interrupted, his cheer plainly forced. “As long as you had a good time. You can watch whatever you like on TV if you want. I'll be upstairs.”

She nodded and headed to her room, probably to change into her pyjamas and get comfortable. Jean put the bowls back where they came from. The pasta would keep. He wasn't hungry anymore. 

He went up to his study, deliberately stepping heavily so Cosette could hear where he was. He shut the door and locked it slowly after a second of thought. He remained by the door, waiting to hear Cosette leave her room and head back downstairs. Then he sat at his desk, mind carefully blank, until he heard the murmur of the TV. He put his head in his hands and felt his face twist with grief. 

He felt like a ghost haunting his own house, trying to stay out of sight. The TV reminded him of their viewing habits, the shows that were recorded, waiting for them to watch together. Maybe she was watching them now. He bit down on his hand to stifle his sob, roughly scrubbing the tears from his eyes, but he could not stop them flowing. 

_Pathetic_. He dug his nails into his palms and bit down on his knuckle more forcefully. _Do not become more of a burden to her than you already are._

He tried to clear his mind again, tried to pray and ask forgiveness, but that only got him choked up again. As he mentally grasped for distractions, Javert came to mind. Jean could not shake the image of his gaunt face. If he hadn't watched for the steady rise and fall of his chest, he would have thought Javert to be dead. 

He wondered again what had happened to put him in such a state. A case gone wrong? An altercation with a violent criminal? Perhaps he had even been at the protest and been crushed by the weight of people. 

He took himself to bed, mainly to not cross Cosette in the hall once she finished downstairs, and he laid there staring into the darkness not believing he would sleep at all. But the emotional exhaustion got the better of him eventually. 

_He trudged through the snow in a darkened forest, branches brushing against his cheek. It was so dark, so cold. He pulled his coat tighter, hoping to reach the outside soon._

_He paused when he heard something rustle ahead of him. Too big for a fox, too small for a man. He crept forward on silent feet, and then he saw her: a small girl with auburn hair, shivering in the snow._

_“Cosette!”_

_She jumped and turned to face him, her eyes wide and fearful._

_“It's alright now, Sweetheart. I'm here.”_

_She shook her head, shrinking away from his hand. Her crouched down to her so she could see him better._

_“Come now Cosette, what's wrong? It's me, it's your Dad.”_

_She shook her head again, her terrified eyes shining. “You're not my Dad.”_

_She stumbled backwards, turned to run and he immediately reached out to grab her arm. Cosette screamed and he let go in shock._

_“You're not my Dad!” She cried, disappearing into the darkness, her sobs echoing back at him._

_Before he could go after her, a firm hand grabbed his coat at the back of his neck._

_“Well, well,” a voice sneered from above. “I always knew I'd bring you in eventually.”_

_“No,” Jean gasped. “No, I haven't broken any laws-”_

_A sharp bark of laughter cut him off._

_“I can deport you, y’know. Then I'll be rid of you for good and French resources won't get wasted on you.”_

_“You can't- you can't do that. I'm a French citizen.”_

_“It's obvious you only married a Frenchwoman to cheat the system. That nullifies it, surely.”_

_“Javert, please-”_

_“No. It's back to Calais for you, I think. The security is much higher than it was all those years ago. No escapes this time, and I'll make sure they ship you off as soon as possible.”_

_It began to rain, the snow beneath his feet turned to mud, and the dark shapes of the trees seemed to be rows of tents of he squinted through the deluge._

_“Time for you to go back to your own country, as they say,” Javert said, giving him a shove between the shoulder blades._

_“How can it be my country when I have no home there? I've spent more of my life in France than I have in Algeria. Please-”_

_At least, that's what he tried to say, but the words sounded strange on his tongue. Cold, heavy metal locked around his wrists._

_"رحمة ، ارحم."_

_His only answer was hollow laughter._

Jean gasped awake, shivering uncontrollably, the taste of a language unused for decades on his tongue, the memory of its shape fading as he became conscious. He quickly found that he had kicked his covers off in his sleep, and bundled them around himself once more, burrowing back down into bed. 

He concentrated on slowing his breathing as he curled up in the warmth and safety of his bed. Pale sunshine was visible through the gap in the curtain and Jean guessed it must be early morning, not wanting to come out of the covers to reach for his phone. 

Cosette's sobs and Javert's laughter still rang in his ears, immobilising him. His body felt like it must be too heavy to try and get up, and he felt much too awful as a person to subject the outside world to his existence. He knew remaining in bed wouldn't help, but he still couldn't bring himself to move until his alarm sounded. A gentle tune with birdsong that did nothing to calm him. 

But the sound signified that he was meant to get up, that it was expected of him. He hauled himself up, and was relieved that it wasn't as difficult as he had thought. He gathered up his clothes and had second thoughts about bothering with the effort of showering. He made the journey across the hall to the bathroom when he realised he didn't want Cosette to think even more poorly of him. 

He washed quickly in barely warm water, and dried himself just as fast to avoid looking at himself too long, before getting into the safety of his clothes. He was surprised to smell cooking when he opened the bathroom door. 

“Morning, Dad,” Cosette greeted when he cautiously entered the kitchen. “You didn't eat last night. You should eat. I'm making us omelettes.”

Jean longed to kiss her hair, his vision blurred with tears he quickly blinked away. 

“Thank you.” _I don't deserve you_. 

He busied himself setting the table to not overstep and ruin this progress. 

“Do you still want me to take you to the hospital today?” he asked when she brought the plates over. 

“If that's okay.”

“Of course, I would like to see some patients today too.”

A soft smile graced Cosette's face. “You are very kind.”

“And you are an excellent cook,” he smiled after his first mouthful. 

“... What patients have you been keeping company?”

Overjoyed by the prospect of their first proper conversation in four days, Jean told her of everyone he had seen. Everyone but Javert. There would be too many questions, many he had himself but more that he would not wish to answer. Cosette knew his story, but not all of it. He was always truthful about the circumstances of his marriage to her mother - they were friends that both needed each other's help, and the marriage itself was one of convenience. Cosette knew he had been at risk of deportation. What she did not know was how he had come to France in the first place and the time he'd served. 

He wanted to be a good role model, that was all. He was unsure if he was successful but if she knew of all he had done he definitely wouldn't be. 

For once the silence on the drive to the hospital wasn't strained, and Cosette even turned on the radio. Jean did not even suffer the same sense of dread when they walked into the hospital. 

“I’ll text you when I’m coming home,” Cosette promised when she left him. 

Jean nodded, not quite able to wish the boy well. He was sure that the doctors and family had everything under control.

He realised he was walking towards the ICU and hesitated. There was no use denying it, if he did not see Javert again he would not be able to shake it from his mind. Jean entered the ward cautiously, noting with relief that Javert’s privacy curtain was closed once again. He approached with caution, listening for sounds of movement from inside but there was nothing. 

“Javert?”

No answer. Jean peeked behind the curtain to see Javert asleep just like before. It was if he had never moved. Perhaps he was in a coma? Even if this thought concerned him, it also made him relax. The question of how he would even begin to speak to Javert would be left until another day. 

Jean silently lifted the chair to the bedside. He sat and prayed just like the day before, his mind distracted by the unanswered questions of Javert's condition. He leaned forward, about to rise, when someone spoke. 

“Fucking perfect.” The dry rasp became a wheezing cough and Valjean froze, staring at Javert who groaned and dropped his head back on the pillow. 

“Javert?”

Javert only narrowed his eyes at him. 

“What… What happened?”

“None of your fucking business.” Javert stopped to draw another wheezing breath. “Unless you're here to smother me with my pillow, I'd rather you left.”

“I'm sorry,” Valjean stood straight and stepped back. “I wish you a fast recovery.”

“Hah!” Javert's bark of laughter brought on a coughing fit, which looked painful and didn't appear to be stopping. 

Unable to leave him choking and gasping, Jean pulled him into a sitting position and pressed the assistance button by the bed. Jean rubbed his back and Javert managed to stop coughing without any further aid, but he was left trembling from the exertion. Jean kept his hand against Javert's back to support him while he used the controls to tilt the bed up into position.

“What has happened?” asked a nurse from behind Jean. 

“Ah, just a coughing fit but I wasn't sure if it would cause damage internally. He was also struggling to breathe.”

“‘m fine,” Javert muttered, his eyes remaining on Jean. “But this isn't something I can recover from. So save your prayers, unless you would care to pray for my peaceful death instead.”

“Now, Javert,” the nurse said calmly, a small frown of concern pinching her brow. “You mustn't talk like that. You can recover. Certainly, your life won't be the same, but that doesn't mean it should end. I'm going to get Doctor Labesse-”

Javert groaned. “No. God, leave me in peace. It's not like I have the means to off myself. Just… Just leave me.”

“You know we can't do that, Javert. I'm sorry.” She turned to Jean. “Could you stay with him for a moment?”

“I'm not- I might not be the best person for that.”

“Just a moment,” she repeated, pulling the privacy curtains open completely. 

“Okay.”

The silence after the nurse had left the room was only disturbed by Javert's rattling inhales. 

“I hate this place,” Javert muttered eventually. 

“Maybe if you were more cooperative you'd have a better experience.”

Javert glared at him and Jean raised a shoulder in a small shrug. 

“They want you to jump through hoops? Jump. You'll get out quicker. But it's always your choice: is your pride worth more than your health? More than your freedom?”

“I don't need your sermons… Or your misguided advice about being imprisoned. I'm not a prisoner. We are not alike.”

“As I said: your decision. I guess that must be your doctor coming in. I'll leave you to it.”

Jean left the room without a glance back. He wondered if his words had been more harm than help - he and Javert rarely ever saw eye-to-eye. He should not interfere. He should leave Javert in the hands of professionals. But even as Jean tried to give his time and attention to other patients, part of his mind was still preoccupied about Javert, cycling the same questions and still not being able to arrive at a satisfactory answer. 

Just like the day before, Jean was reluctant to leave the hospital to be left with his thoughts. Any detour he might have considered had some connection to a cause of his sadness and would only make him worse. Even the thought of the Luxembourg brought with it the memory of walking with Cosette's tiny hand in his and picking her up to see the flowers which grew out of her reach. 

They should have been happy memories he would be glad to reminisce on, but instead they were bittersweet and brought tears to his eyes. He sighed and settled on going home. He had nowhere else. He had no one to confide in or distract him, no friends - not since Fantine and Hadi passed. 

Once he was inside, he made himself tea and turned the computer on in the study. He Googled Javert, just to continue to occupy his thoughts. The information he was met with was nothing he didn't already know. The results were mostly brief name-drops in articles regarding police cases. Inspector Javert of the Paris Police. Most search results related to the headline _Construction Samaritan - Fraud?_ or _Secret Identity of a Charitable Businessman_ and many other, more mean-spirited, versions. Jean didn't click those links. He already knew _that_ story. 

Jean did stumble across some kind of Academy class photograph, uniformed men and women who had been inducted into the police force. He spotted Javert immediately, tall enough to have been positioned in the back row, his younger face still made severe by his apparently ever-present frown. 

The distraction sufficed in keeping him busy until Cosette's message came in. 

_Be back in time for dinner. Don't go to any trouble, we’ll reheat the pasta. It looked so good! See you soon x_

All thoughts of Javert were immediately forgotten. Cosette wanted to have dinner with him! Her text sounded much like they used to. Could things be repaired between them? Was it possible? If Cosette was willing to give him a chance, he would try his very best to do better. 

Jean immediately went downstairs to set the table and prepare for Cosette's arrival. He did not spare a thought for his computer, still on, and the image of Javert looking out of his screen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a lot of fun adapting the character's backstories into something that works in a modern-day setting  
> I hope you agree when these things are revealed!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings (contains spoilers?):  
> suicide attempt, mention of minor character death, javert's opinions aren't my own, javert needs to go through a grieving process

It had been a week since Jean last visited the hospital. Now that Marius had been discharged, Cosette had no reason to go and so Jean took her to visit Marius at his home instead. He was not comfortable to let her walk the streets alone just yet, but he always drove away as soon as the door opened, fearful of being invited in. He could not stomach the idea of seeing someone else parent and care for Cosette better than himself. 

Jean had always been fearful of being judged - by the law, by French nationals, by society. He especially did not want to be judged by the family of the boy Cosette loved. What if their opinion of him made them think less of her? What if he ruined this for her too? Perhaps _that_ was why she had kept her boyfriend a secret from him. 

He had occupied himself as usual: tending to the local park where he had planted many flowers during the years he had lived on Rue Oudinot, teaching French at the community centre, and volunteering at the homeless shelter when he didn't have classes. Jean felt he had neglected some of these duties in the previous week, and so threw himself into these tasks with vigour. If it stopped him thinking of Cosette and Marius, that was a welcome addition. 

But that Saturday afternoon, he finished at the shelter and Cosette had arranged to be brought home by a friend in the evening, so he was once again at a loss of what to do. He found himself driving in the direction of the hospital after leaving the shelter. He thought of Javert once again. Surely it would do no harm to step into the room and see if he appeared any healthier. With any luck, Javert would have recovered and been discharged already. 

Once he arrived at Javert's room, he was not fortunate enough to be able to make an assessment from the doorway. Jean supposed he should not have been surprised that the privacy curtain was closed again. He entered quietly, nodding and smiling in greeting to the other patients, not wanting to speak and make his presence known to Javert yet. He stopped outside the curtain, hesitating. To announce himself now was almost like deciding to poke a sleeping tiger, and Jean did not want to have Javert's anger worsen his condition if he was awake. 

“Well. As I said, I am glad the operation went fine,” said a male voice from behind the curtain that Jean did not recognise. This was followed by a sigh. “Just focus on yourself, alright? You need plenty of time to recover and adapt but… when you're ready… there will still be a position for you. So don't concern yourself about that.”

There was a silence that Javert's response was expected to fill. Javert did not cooperate. 

“I will visit as often as I can, okay? Alright. Well. I suppose I'll see you soon.”

The curtain pulled back sooner than Jean expected, and he was caught eavesdropping. The man who had been speaking was tall (but not as tall as Javert), with short grey hair and calculating blue eyes. 

“Hello,” Jean said feebly. 

“Ha!” Javert's short bark of laughter did not trigger a coughing fit this time. “You see who comes to visit me, Chabouillet? None other than Jean Valjean! Can you believe it? Do you remember him? Perhaps I should call him _Jarrah Bouziane_.”

Chabouillet seemed more surprised by Javert's willingness to speak than Jean’s presence. 

“I legally changed my name,” Jean frowned. 

“No matter what it says on paper, I know who you are and you're not ‘Jean Madeleine’ _or_ ‘Jean Valjean’. Not really.”

“Javert,” Chabouillet sighed. “It's a long closed case and not what you should be stressing yourself with. I must be going. Don't antagonise each other.” 

Jean stepped back to make his own exit as Chabouillet walked past him, but Javert spoke again. 

“Madeleine was a much more sensible name. You should've kept that one.”

“That name had been in the newspapers. Whichever name I chose would also be given to my daughter, and I did not want to burden her with such an association.”

“She is associated with you either way.”

Jean shrugged, and grimaced in an expression of defeat. “There is nothing to be done about that, aside from try my best.”

“Mm.”

To be caught under Javert's scrutiny made him squirm, despite Javert's bedridden state. 

“... You had an operation?” Jean ventured. If Javert was unwilling to talk to his friend, then he should be kept in conversation when he appeared to want it. It was important that long-term patients did not feel that the outside world had forgotten them. 

“Yes. I survived. Unfortunately.”

“Javert… It isn't healthy to think such things. I've never known you to be so… despondent.”

“You're not my friend, _Jarrah_. What do you know about me?”

“Not much, that's true. But you could tell me, if you like.”

Javert snorted. “What are you playing at? I don't suppose I can begrudge you the opportunity to come and gloat at my bedside, to feel the schadenfreude of my suffering and helplessness.”

“No. I do not find pleasure in anyone's pain. I am only trying to help.”

“But why?” Javert snapped in frustration. “I did not ask you to be here, and why would you want to help someone who has treated you so poorly?”

Jean blinked in surprise at this admission. He had not expected Javert's opinion of him to change in the years since they last met, and he certainly would not have expected for Javert to admit his past actions might have been wrong so suddenly. Jean had a surge of hope for their conversation. 

“I am here because I can see that you need help, whether you admit it or not. Until today I had not seen anyone visit you and I thought it might help for you to see a familiar face of someone who was not a doctor, even if it was me.”

They lapsed into awkward silence and Jean thought that might be the end of Javert's willingness to speak. 

“Maybe I took your advice,” Javert muttered. “I was getting too tired to keep arguing anyway, especially when it was so futile. I'd try and push them away and I'd just get sedated.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It was welcome. To not have to experience this for awhile. But anyway, your suggestion of jumping through hoops hasn't entirely gone in my favour but… I suppose they are more willing to tell me what is going to happen. Although I'm not sure I want to know.”

“You're welcome.”

“I wasn't thanking you,” Javert glared at him. “Everything is shit.”

“You look much better.”

“I still can't move. I still can't do anything by myself.”

“But you look better,” Jean risked a small smile. “And you can continue to get better, then you will go back home.”

“Hmpf.”

“Would you like me to get anything for you? A drink, some kind of food the doctors wouldn't ordinarily provide?”

Javert immediately perked up but then appeared to catch himself before he answered, and squinted in suspicion instead. Jean rolled his eyes. 

“Surely it's a win-win situation. If you think I'm going to poison you, you've just been telling me how you wish you were dead. But I'm not, so you'll just get to enjoy whatever it is you want me to bring you.”

“Coffee,” Javert muttered. “Good coffee.”

“Any particular kind? Latte or-”

Javert gave him a flat stare. 

“Right. Of course, let me guess: black.”

Javert nodded and Jean left him to find a café nearby. There were plenty of places to buy coffee within the hospital, but Jean assumed that Javert would have been given something from these places, and it apparently wasn't up to his standards. 

There was a small independent place about five minutes away, according to Google Maps. He followed the directions and pondered the menu when he arrived. If he got something for himself, it would be less awkward to sit for awhile longer by Javert's beside. 

Two black coffees, two croissants and a pocket full of sugar packets later, Jean was on his way back to the hospital. 

Javert rolled his eyes again when he saw Jean enter the room with something other than a single cup of coffee. “I should know you never do as your told.”

Jean took his seat again, passing Javert his coffee and the paper bag of pastries. 

“If you don't want to eat it, I'm sure someone else will. Sugar?”

Javert shook his head and Jean emptied two packets into his own cup. To his delight, Javert took a croissant from the bag and took a small bite of the buttery pastry. 

“Is the coffee okay?”

“It's okay. Better than what I get here.”

“You know… If you really do object to my visiting, I won't come again. I don't want to make your experience any worse.”

“It makes no difference to me. As I said, I can't begrudge you the opportunity to gloat. Besides,” he continued before Jean could protest, “at least I can bitch at you without the risk of being stabbed with a needle. And the coffee’s okay.”

“Good,” Jean gave him a small smile and they sipped their drinks in a silence that was not quite as strained as before. 

“I'll leave you in peace,” Jean said once he had finished, standing and placing the chair back against the wall. 

“Hey, take your fucking pastry.”

“You can have it.”

“I don't want it.”

Jean shrugged. “Me neither. Save it or give it to one of your roommates.”

“You're infuriating,” Javert muttered. 

“See you again… sometime. I guess.”

“Sure. Good riddance.”

The experience had left Jean in a good mood, certainly better than before he had gone to the hospital. He did not even think twice about going straight back home. Of course Cosette wasn't there, but that was okay. Hopefully she was having fun and Jean wouldn't wish to deny her happiness. 

She had been off school for the past week due to her distress, but she would return on Monday. Jean expected a return to their normal routines too. 

Until she arrived back home, he organised the resources for his future classes. He always provided everything he could - paper, pens, print-outs - as most of the students were economically disadvantaged. They were improving their French to integrate, and to make themselves eligible candidates for a job vacancies. If they were already unemployed or underpaid, Jean would not add to their burden. He would do what he could.

One student had a problem reading, even in her native language, and Jean suspected an underlying issue. She had done better with bigger fonts, and Jean would get her to try the coloured sheets of acetate he had brought that could help if she was dyslexic. 

He was never certain if he was a good teacher, but he wanted to help those in need and struggling immigrants were something that had hit close to home. Initially he had volunteered at the community centre, making donations of supplies and food, but then the management had informed him of the possibility of a teaching position. Jean had to confess his criminal record and lack of teaching qualifications, but they only said his past would help the students identify with him.

Jean was fortunate to have the funds that remained from _Meilleur Avenir_ 1 to pay his bills and pay for his training. He was fortunate for many things in his life. The position was part-time and didn't pay much, but Jean was a man of few needs. His savings hadn't been exhausted by any means, but he appreciated the security of a wage and having a record of honest employment. 

To add to his good mood, he heard Cosette's key in the door earlier than expected. He went downstairs to greet her, but found her talking to a dark-haired young man on the doorstep. 

“Hey, Dad,” Cosette said. “This is Grantaire. I thought the weather was nice to walk back home but I know you're worried about me going around by myself right now…”

Grantaire was staring, wide-eyed, at Jean. 

“Hello,” Jean said with a forced smile. “But I'm not sure about Grantaire walking back alone either.”

“Your _dad_ is Monsieur LeBlanc?!”

“Is who?” Cosette frowned. 

“The guy who was taking everyone to the hospital! I mean, we didn't know his _actual_ name-”

“You did?!” Cosette stared at him too and Valjean shifted uncomfortably. 

“How could you not _know_?!” Grantaire squarked. 

This wasn't a conversation Jean wanted to have on his doorstep, so he ushered them both inside. 

“I mean… I knew you went out that day but… I guess I was too upset and worried about my friends to wonder where you'd gone…”

“Well, it doesn't matter. Grantaire, can I get you a drink?”

“Of course it matters!” Cosette scolded as she embraced him. 

Jean noticed Grantaire raising his phone just in time. 

“No photos please. I'd rather not have my face all over social media, or Cosette's. Especially in relation to recent events.”

“I was just going to send it to my friends.”

“I'm sure they'll believe you without photographic evidence.”

Grantaire shrugged and put his phone back in his pocket. 

“You're such a kind man,” Cosette said as she separated from him. “I know you just want to look after me.”

“Well,” he murmured. “I still ought to listen to what you have to say and have the decency to allow you to have privacy.”

“I should be going,” Grantaire cut in. 

“I can give you a lift if you like?”

“Nah, I can look after myself, don't worry. Thanks though. A saviour and a gentleman, how about that?” 

“I wouldn't say I was either of those things-” Jean tried to protest, but Grantaire only laughed. 

“And humble, of course!”

Cosette went to see him out and if Jean heard her say ‘ _make sure you go straight home_ ’ and ‘ _no stopping for a drink, okay?_ ’ he told himself he wasn't intentionally eavesdropping. 

“Sorry about that,” she said when she returned. “Grantaire tends to speak, and act, before he thinks.”

“That's okay. He has a good heart to walk you here.”

“He does,” Cosette smiled. “Likes to pretend he doesn't though.”

She set about making tea for them both. 

“I met them through Marius. All of these new friends. A lot of them want to be lawyers, some of them are already at uni studying for it.”

“And Marius?” Jean asked, suddenly concerned that he was considerably older than Cosette. 

“He starts next year, but his best friend is a first year.”

That made Marius and Cosette the same age, which was something of a relief. Hopefully having friends older than himself made him more mature. 

“It's only been a few months, it's all pretty new. I would've told you, Dad. When I figured out how.”

“I had hoped you felt like you could tell me anything…”

“I do! It's just… I don't know… I didn't want you to worry. You can see now that some of them are very… politically motivated. But they're all good people. The conversation is always heated and interesting - about equality and justice. And… it just happened so fast. It was… kind of love at first sight for both of us. Marius is very sweet and good-natured. A little shy.”

“Alright. As long as you stay out of trouble.”

Jean suddenly wondered with horror if his daughter was sexually active. He didn't know how to even begin such a conversation. He had no experience in such relationships himself - who was he to offer advice to her?

“You can come with me to visit him, if you like.”

“No, let him recover first. He has… been through a lot. You can bring him here when he's well enough.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“But no staying the night,” Jean internally cringed as the words left his mouth, and Cosette dropped her head to hide her blush, immediately understanding the implication. 

“No. We're not… Not doing anything like that.”

“Well that's- that's good. You shouldn't rush into these things or feel pressured.”

They sipped their drinks at the same time to avoid any further talk before the awkwardness became unbearable. 

“Let's watch _Les petite maison dans la prairie_ ,” Cosette suggested, to Jean’s delight. “We must have a lot to catch up on!”

As they settled on the sofa, Jean could easily forget that the events of the past week has ever happened. 

\-----

Such contentment did not last. Jean’s expectation of the return to normality did not return with Cosette going back to school. Most days she would go straight to Marius’ for dinner when she was finished, and come back home an hour or so before she went to bed. Jean saw less of her than before and thought himself foolish for believing it would turn out any different. 

By Thursday his mood had soured considerably and he decided to return to the hospital to distract his mind once again. Perhaps it wasn't the best decision, if Javert antagonised him today, Jean might even argue back. 

As he walked through the hospital to the ICU that was now becoming familiar, Jean was surprised to find Javert's curtain completely open and the bed empty. 

Jean felt a surge of guilt. He had delayed too long and Javert had been discharged. He had expected Jean to return but he only ever came when it suited him, when he had nothing better to do. 

He turned and walked back the way he came, but was stopped halfway down the corridor. 

“Hey! Where's the coffee?”

Jean looked back to see Javert pushing himself in a wheelchair at the other end of the corridor, a nurse following behind. Jean approached him. 

“I wasn't sure if you were still here.”

“Of course I am,” Javert said bitterly, coming to a stop in front of him. “Hey, Nurse? Can Jean take me outside if I get dressed?”

This request surprised Jean, but if Javert had been confined to a hospital bed for two weeks it was understandable that he would take any opportunity to get out. The name surprised him too - Javert hadn’t referred to him as ‘Jean’ since he first stepped into ‘Jean Madeleine's’ on-site office regarding the theft of construction materials. 

It had been a rainy day of an equally rainy week, the ground was a mass of churned up mud and the flatbed truck delivering timber lurched back when reversing out of the mud it had sunk into. The shouts had alerted both Jean and Javert, and they both rushed outside to assess the situation. 

Al-Hadi Fauchelevent had slipped trying to step away and the back tire of the truck had crushed his leg. The driver was afraid to move the vehicle in any direction in case he made things worse. Jean didn't find out any of these facts until later. He immediately got under the back of the truck, resting the edge of it against his shoulders as he lifted it enough for Hadi to be dragged free. 

That show of strength was undoubtedly what caused Javert to start making his own investigations into Jean’s past. Javert would have recognised him from his time as a border guard at Calais. The next time he saw Javert, he did not call him ‘Jean’ or ‘Monsieur Madeleine’.

Jean had been angry, but he had already put measures in place to protect himself, with the help and support of Fantine. He realised in the lead-up to his court date that Javert was harsh but still just. He had not tried to get Jean’s business closed on health and safety grounds, or investigate any incompetence of his staff, he must have seen that it was an honest accident. 

“I'll need to speak with Doctor Labesse,” the nurse said after a minute of uncertainty, brining Jean back to the present situation. 

“Go ahead, Jean can stay in the room with me.”

“Alright. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Come on then,” Javert said as he started moving again. “Or were you lying when you implied that you were here to visit me?”

“No, of course not,” Jean said walking quickly to catch up. 

Javert aligned his chair at the side of his bed and remained there. 

“You'll take me to get coffee?”

Jean wasn't sure if this was a question or a demand. “Sure.”

“Good. If they say I can't leave, tell them I'll go insane if I have to stay in this hospital a moment longer.”

“Uh, okay…”

They stayed in silence until the doctor returned, nurse in tow. 

“You want to go out? Javert, you must understand that you have only started using that chair this week. You're expending a lot of energy merely going down the corridors. We have outdoor areas here you can use if you want fresh air. You must be patient. Your progress this week has been wonderful.”

Jean could see Javert's jaw tense, and his gaze become stony. He expected an outburst, an argument that would not only keep him in the hospital but also confined to bed. 

Javert closed his eyes and exhaled. “I think it will do me good. Just five minutes to go and get a coffee so I don't feel like a prisoner. So I remember the outside world and know that people won't care enough to stare at my being in a wheelchair. To know what my limitations are and know what I need to work on when I get back. That's all.”

He had gained Jean’s respect for his eloquence and restraint when his frustration had been so evident. 

“It must be beneficial for his mental health, Doctor,” Jean chimed in. “I agree, his health and attitude is much improved from a week ago, but we don't want to risk it sliding backwards if he feels he isn't making progress. We all want to achieve the same thing: Javert's recovery. I'll be with him and I'll bring him straight back if there's any kind of problem.”

The doctor scrutinised them both for a moment. “I agree with you, but it is not so simple. I'd need to make an application for temporary leave. It _will_ be helpful for assessing when Javert is ready to be discharged, and a short journey will be simple to gain approval for. I can submit it today but you'll need to come back tomorrow to see if the request has been approved.”

Javert made a disgruntled grumble, but Jean was quick to thank the doctor for his help. 

“I'll get that coffee for you now then,” Jean said. “And you can get it for yourself tomorrow.” 

Before Javert could respond, Jean was gone, weaving his way through the hospital and back out into the warm sunshine. He was quick, only getting the one coffee for Javert this time, not wanting him to dwell on his disappointment for too long. 

Javert was back in bed when Jean returned, arms folded with an air of defeat. 

“Here,” Jean said, passing him the cup. “I'm sure they'll let you go tomorrow, and then they can see how well you'll manage. You'll be home in no time after this.”

“Right,” Javert muttered. 

“And now you'll have time to ask someone else.”

“Ask someone else what?”

“To accompany you tomorrow. Surely you'd prefer… Chabouillet? over me.”

“No. It has to be you. They're probably saying in their request that it will be you, if I change it they probably have to submit it all over again and it will delay it even longer.”

“I suppose so. I'll… see you tomorrow then? Same time?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay…” Jean took his leave, an unsettled feeling in his gut that something wasn't quite right. 

The sensation followed him home, a sense of foreboding that distracted him when he finally had Cosette's company and made his sleep fitful. He tried to remember if Javert had said anything unusual or behaved any differently to the previous days that Jean had seen him. Nothing stood out in his memory, there had just been something… off, as if Jean had picked up on a subtle emotional signal he wasn't consciously aware of. 

As a result, he was tired and anxious the next morning, heading to the hospital earlier than he had intended. The doctor and nurse from the previous day were at Javert's bedside, taking his blood pressure. 

“... Good morning,” Jean said. 

“Ah! Hello, Monsieur,” the doctor greeted him, noting down Javert's result and removing the armband. “We're just giving Javert an assessment of his health, following the approval of temporary leave. It's quite unusual to give leave to patients of a few weeks, especially with complex health issues, but as he needs to be transferred to Sainte-Anne’s as soon as possible, it will be beneficial to get an assessment of his mental condition too.”

Jean nodded. 

“If you could excuse us a moment, we need to do some exercises with Javert. Come back in about an hour, and we’ll see if he is up to going out today.”

“Okay. Thank you, Doctor.”

Javert seemed to be avoiding looking at him, so Jean left the room. He wandered the corridors, checking his watch every five minutes, before opting to sit in the courtyard, watching staff and patients, wondering about their lives. 

The hour still passed slowly, and Jean was eager to go back to the room to get this whole business over and done with. Seeing Javert again had lessened the foreboding somewhat, but a tension still remained in the atmosphere. 

The doctor greeted Jean with a smile. A good sign. 

“Javert still insists that he's good to go, but make sure that you're gone no more than an hour, accounting for Javert still getting accustomed to the chair. Come back immediately at the first sign of discomfort, difficulty or change in mood. And Javert, be honest with yourself. If you're starting to feel tired, come straight back, even if you haven't reached your destination.”

“Yeah, I will. I just…” Javert hesitated, turning his face away from Valjean, towards the wall. “I need help getting dressed.”

“Of course,” the doctor said. 

“Sophia can do it… If she doesn't mind.”

“Let's get to it then,” then nurse said with a smile, stepping towards the bed and pulling the curtain closed. 

“You are a friend?” The doctor asked. 

“Yes,” Jean said because he doubted _No, he arrested me almost a decade ago and years before that he knew me as a prisoner at the immigration camp he worked at,_ would convince them to let Javert leave with him. “Old friends.”

“Good. It's important he has a support network, people he can confide in. It's been a lot for him to go through, as you can imagine. Medical staff can only help so much, and as I'm sure you know, staff and ward availability are stretched.”

“Yes,” Jean repeated, not knowing what Javert had been through at all. 

Muttered cursing and soothing reassurances were heard behind the curtain. 

“How much longer do you expect him to stay?”

“It's difficult to say for sure. His condition is stabilising, there's no concern about his lungs anymore, that's all cleared. He has recovered well from surgery… we just need to assess if it's possible for his condition to improve any further, and then we will see about referring him to Sainte-Anne’s. I hope you will convince him to go voluntarily. He needs specialist care we can't offer here but they cannot take him in his current condition.”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“As he has no relatives or next of kin to act on his behalf, or care for him when he's discharged, his case is serious enough that we could admit him without his consent, but I would rather not if I don't have to.”

Jean could imagine what Javert's reaction would be to that. 

“I will do my best.”

“I need you to sign this form, agreeing that you are his chaperone and responsible for his care outside of the hospital grounds on this occasion. We cannot spare a nurse and I believe you will get a truer indication of Javert's condition and ability to manage without him trying to prove himself in front of us. You will relay how he is when you get back, without Javert present. It's vital for his recovery that your account is honest. We are doing what's best for him.”

“I understand,” Jean said, signing his name on the document, trying not to think of the weight of responsibility, and that he was still in the dark about what he was meant to be watching Javert for. But they were meant to be friends, he would already know. He could not show his ignorance, or the whole thing might be called off. 

Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing, Javert would be angry but in the care of professionals. It was too late now, his name was signed. 

“Take this number for the department. Use it if anything goes wrong.”

“Let's go,” Javert barked, unable to restrain his impatience any longer, struggling with the curtain from his chair before the nurse helped him. 

Jean fell into step beside him as they went down the corridor, noting that even the exertion of dressing seemed to have tired him, and the clothes hung loose on his frame. 

“Don't you dare even attempt to push me.”

“Okay.” Jean did not try to broach the subject of Javert's energy levels. 

They remained in silence, even outside the front entrance, but Jean noticed that Javert visibly relaxed. With Javert's frustration abated, Jean felt the tension that had been plaguing him ease. 

Javert no longer had the same sense of urgency now that he was outside. His speed slowed, and he pushed himself in a way that almost seemed natural, the movement of his arms relaxed. 

It wasn't natural to Javert, of course. They had to travel further down the street than expected to find a dropped curb at a pedestrian crossing. People not paying attention to their surroundings would wander into Javert's path or slow down in front of him to text. Jean nearly broke his agreement wanting to hold Javert back, certain that he would try and run these people over. He didn't, but he was clearly frustrated, with not enough clearance to swerve around them. Jean quickly called a polite ‘ _excuse me_ ’, before Javert could select his own choice of words. 

It took fifteen minutes to get to their destination, and Jean knew that if Javert had taken this route on foot before that he would be irritated it had taken them three times as long. Luckily, he just seemed relieved to have made it. The access ramp and automatic door stopped Javert's mood from turning, but the cramped inside space taken up by a small queue of customers and clusters of tables and chairs, made navigation with a wheelchair difficult. 

“Let's sit here,” Jean suggested, using the relatively clear path along the wall to the back of the café, intentionally bumping chairs that were pulled a little too far out and murmuring his apologies to get them to move in so that the path was easier for Javert. 

He quickly shoved one of the chairs under the next table to make room for Javert. 

“I'll go and make the order. I won't be long.”

Javert did not say anything, just stared at the sticky coffee rings on the table. Jean joined the queue, which had thankfully grown shorter, and made sure to keep his eyes on Javert as much as possible. 

When he reached the counter, he asked for his order to be brought to the table. The barista looked like he might protest, but Jean did not want to leave Javert any longer than he had to. The same sense of dread had been creeping up his spine the closer they had got to their destination. 

“Please, it would be appreciated. My friend is in a wheelchair. I can't leave him.”

The words were sour in his mouth, seeming to indicate Javert's lack of mobility as a burden to him. 

“Oh. Of course,” the barista stammered. “I'll bring it over.”

Jean wove through the tables back to his seat, suddenly very aware that Javert would not be able to do such a thing. For someone so tall, with such a menacing presence, Javert always had an eerie ability of treading softly and blending into shadows. It must be a very different life for someone such as Javert to have to rely on a wheelchair, Jean thought. He was no longer tall, could not look down on Jean with a sneer anymore, and his menace had folded into quiet anger. 

“They're bringing it over,” Jean informed him as he pulled out the chair opposite Javert. 

Javert did not look up from the table and did not speak. The silence only grew more uncomfortable with the appearance of the barista. 

“Thank you,” Jean said as the tray was placed on their table. 

Javert finally looked at him to scowl when he noticed the pain au chocolat. Jean only shrugged innocently in answer. 

“If you say ‘it was all they had’, you're a liar.”

“I'm not saying anything.”

“Tch.”

“But you should eat it while it's warm.”

Jean took a bite of his own this time and Javert curled his hands around his coffee cup. After his first sip, he appeared to settle. 

“I'd say you're just doing this to stick it to me. Rub it in my face by acting like such a model citizen…” Javert sighed. “But I know now. I don't know what's more aggravating: thinking you were trying to deceive everyone, or knowing that you're just Like This.”

“Like what?”

“... Charitable.”

They avoided talking by eating, but using it as a method of using time, the pastries were gone and the drinks drained quickly. 

“I don't want to say it but… I guess we should head back.”

It hadn't been much longer than half an hour since they left the hospital, but Jean didn't want to push it. 

To his surprise, Javert nodded. “You almost make it sound like you were enjoying it,” he smirked, which Jean supposed might be his way of cracking a smile. His mouth wasn't made for such expressions, it seemed. 

“I was pleasantly surprised,” Jean returned, and Javert snorted. 

“You _are_ a liar.”

“I thought you just said I wasn't as deceitful as you believed.”

“I believed you to be _incredibly_ deceitful, so that still doesn't make you entirely honest.”

“Alright. Small steps. I'll take what slim compliments I can get.”

“It wasn't a compliment.”

As they left the coffee shop, Jean was sure that the way back would be quicker now they knew which paths to take. He was just about to relay this observation, but Javert spoke first.

“Maybe it was.”

“What was?”

That question became instantly irrelevant as Jean looked to see Javert bump down the curb, swerving into the road. Into oncoming traffic. Into the path of a bus. 

Before he could think or entirely register what was happening, Jean leapt forward, grabbing the handles of the chair and pulling it back, getting his arm across Javert's chest when he was close enough to stop him falling forwards. The blaring of the horn thrummed in his ears. The squeal of brakes. 

He toppled backwards, the wheelchair tipping back with him, wheels sliding forwards. Jean just managed to retain his balance, the backrest of the chair against him, his arm still securing Javert tightly. 

“Javert?” He gasped. “Are you hurt?”

There was no reply, but he could feel Javert shaking. Jean noticed the bus pulling over a little way up the road, the driver probably concerned about their welfare. 

“I'm sorry. I'm going to have to push you.”

Jean quickly righted the chair, grasping the handles once again, and jogged away before some well-intentioned person got him and Javert in a whole lot of trouble. Javert said nothing through this entire experience and Jean had no destination in mind. He should really return to the hospital but…

He slowed, almost tripping over his own feet. 

_It wasn't an accident._

Jean steered them towards a bench beneath a tree. 

Javert hadn’t suddenly lost control of his chair. Javert was very sick. Javert needed specialist care. Jean hadn’t _seen._

It dawned on him then, with a cold rush of horror, that Javert had planned this. That his improvement from when Jean had first seen him in the hospital, his willingness to play along and do as he was told - Javert had been hoping that he would be granted this opportunity. That he could convince Jean to take him outside. 

Thankfully, Jean was able to flop onto the bench, not sure that his shaking legs could continue to hold him after such a revelation. Javert was by his side, almost as if they were sitting together. His head was down. Jean could see the muscle standing out from the tension in his jaw. His hands were clasped tightly into fists in his lap. 

“Javert…” Jean rested a hand on his arm, and Javert immediately wrenched it away. 

“Don't _fucking_ touch me.”

Jean retreated. Javert looked so tired, and so frail. 

“Why are you in hospital?”

They both knew that Jean had some idea of it now, and that he might as well know the truth. 

“You've seen the news, right? You're not _actually_ a full-on hermit.”

“Sure. The protests?”

“The kid.”

“The one who died?” 

It had now been reported that a young boy, just twelve years old, had been killed by the force of the water cannon. Quite rightly, everyone was appalled at the police, even all of those who had been against the protest. But why did it take the death of a child for people to speak up?

“I'm part of an establishment that killed a _kid_ ,” Javert put his head in his hands. “I _knew_ him. Not that it should matter. He was a little bastard, always getting into trouble, being where he shouldn't. His parents are often in and out of jail, he runs away from foster homes, gives police officers shit. He didn't deserve to _die_. Fuck.”

“I'm sorry, Javert.”

“No. Don't you fucking dare give me your misplaced mercy. It might as well have been me that killed him. I was there, hitting kids with my baton. _Fuck._ Sure, they're legally adults but they're still goddamn _kids_ too. Naive. But just kids. Jesus. I could've easily been like Gavroche. A pain in the ass street urchin. I was brought up in a banlieue2 too.”

“But you didn't kill him,” Jean tried to implore. 

“But how many others have I hurt, Jean? How many other have I ignored the pleas of and locked up? Limiting their futures? I ignored your pleas, ignored all the good you had tried to do and damned you to jail. You lost your business!”

Javert was becoming increasingly distressed and Jean risked touching his shoulder. This time there was no protest. 

“But I managed. I survived it. People change, Javert, I was not the man I am now when I was in Calais. Now you have changed. You _can_ change, you must try.”

“Why must I? What use am I?” Javert finally raised his head to look at him, his eyes were dry but filled with despair. 

“You are of much more use to the world alive than you are dead.”

“I can't _walk._ I will never walk. I fucked up my spine trying to throw myself into the Seine. I guess it's karma or some shit. I can't just fucking die without suffering first.”

“Javert…”

“You didn't know. I know that. It was actually a relief to have someone not walking on eggshells around me. But don't tell me that I'll recover, because I won't. It's permanent paralysis. I can't feel or move anything below the waist. I have to have a bag of my own piss strapped to my leg. I have to train my body how and when to shit. I dread every day I wake up. It won't ever change, it won't get better. My body has become an utterly useless shell and I have to suffer strangers touching me, washing me, dressing me and I fucking hate it!”

Javert's gaze had gone back to the ground during his purge of emotions, but when Jean could not articulate a response, Javert looked at him again. 

“Christ,” Javert muttered, rolling his eyes at the tears blurring Jeans vision. 

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. I don't deserve apologies from you.”

Jean would argue the point, but didn't feel that there would be any benefit of doing so in this delicate moment. 

“Have you told anyone? How you feel? What makes you feel this way?” Jean was quick to clarify. 

“No.”

“You should. I don't know the best way to help you, but a professional will. You might not see it right now, but I believe there _is_ hope, and that you can have a rich and happy life.”

Javert snorted. “I was never able to attain those things before, nor did I care to.”

They lapsed into silence, the knowledge they needed to head back to the hospital weighing down on them. 

“... Don't tell them,” Javert murmured. 

“You know I have to. This is serious, and I'm worried for you.”

“I can't imagine why,” Javert snapped. “They're going to send me to a psych unit, you know that?”

“You need their help. Look, I won't say what happened but I'll say that you made your desire to end your life clear, okay?”

Javert nodded, wheeling himself forward. “We should go, time’s almost up.”

Jean was surprised by Javert's sudden willingness to return, but with one look at him it was clear Javert had depleted what little energy he had. Jean had known of prisoners who, after their release, had nowhere to go and so _wanted_ to return to prison, just to be given food and shelter. Jean himself had thought to try that once, when he had been at his most hopeless, but the fear of deportation had stopped him. 

Javert realised he could not care for himself, that it was impossible to return home, so if he was unable to end his life what option did that leave him? He could only return to the hospital, defeated. 

Jean stepped towards him, his hands hovering uncertainly between them. “I'm sorry, I-”

“Yeah, you're gonna have to push me. I thought as much. Well go ahead, it's not like I can stop you.”

The way back was quiet, but all of the previous tension had dissipated, leaving Jean emotionally exhausted. He deeply regretted his previous interactions with Javert these past weeks - how blunt he had been, entirely ignorant of the pain and humiliation Javert had suffered. 

When they reached the hospital, Jean hesitated to enter. He knew Javert needed professional care, but no matter how good the staff were, Javert's daily experience would involve many violations of his personal space and privacy. Jean knew what that was like, and he struggled to leave Javert to such a fate. 

“If you delay any longer I'll start having second thoughts too,” Javert said. “It's just going to be like every other day since I've been here, just because you know more doesn't make things any different. It'll be a blessing when I finally manage to sleep, and everything else is tomorrow's problem.”

Jean pushed forward, going inside. For whatever reason, Javert had chosen to confide in him and no one else. That was important. Javert needed to see someone who _knew._

“I will visit. Everyday.”

“Don't trouble yourself.”

“I will.”

“Only if you bring coffee.”

“And pastries?”

“As I've been saying: it's not like I can stop you.”

Surely Jean had imagined the almost friendly amusement in Javert's voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Meilleur Avenir (Madeleine's construction company) - Brighter Future  
> 2\. Banlieue - technically a suburb of a city but has become a term for 'poverty trap' housing projects (low-income housing, largely populated by immigrants)


	3. Chapter 3

Jean worried about Javert almost constantly. If another opportunity to end his life presented itself, he was sure Javert would take it. Jean couldn't shake the fact that Javert's initial attempt had been due to his faith in the police force being chronically diminished, and the guilt he had suffered by realising his blind servitude to such an institution. It appeared to make him reevaluate all of his previous decisions and cases - Jean’s included. 

Jean had always believed people to be capable of change, he was a prime example of it after all - changing for the worse before becoming a better person, but he hadn't expected Javert's change to be so rapid and so affecting. Jean knew from his own experience that redemption was a long and arduous journey that was never truly completed. It was something you had to work at throughout life and it was only over when the Lord would finally weigh your actions and judge your soul. 

He realised he didn't know Javert at all. Did he not have any family? Friends? Chaboulliet seemed like more of a colleague. Where did he live? Did he have anyone to look after his affairs? His home? Plants or pets? Would his home be suitable to return to now that he had to use a wheelchair? Was there enough space to move? Stairs? Were the doors wide enough?

The more he thought, the more questions arose and the more difficult Javert's life and recovery appeared. No wonder he felt so frustrated and hopeless at his situation. 

Jean didn't even know what he did outside of his police work. For almost twenty years Javert had just been synonymous with the law, his humanity removed. Jean thought how hypocritical that view had been. He had hated how the law had consumed his identity, although for the opposite reason, so why had he used it to form a blanket understanding of Javert?

He had tried to appeal to his humanity once, but just because that had failed didn't mean his humanity had vanished. Jean knew that Javert had only spoken to him now to give him the opportunity to make the attempt on his own life, and after that, confided in him out of sheer hopeless frustration. But now that Jean had that knowledge, he could not turn his back. Javert had thrown him a rope, perhaps without realising, for Jean to pull him up out of the abyss. His humanity had to be nurtured, his fragile displays of emotion welcomed and protected. 

Perhaps it was easy to accept this responsibility because they had already seen the worst in each other. They had started at rock bottom and in Jean’s opinion, things could only improve between them. Javert's bristly, argumentative nature was part of his personality, and Jean found that it wasn't threatening when not ‘justified’ by a badge. 

Cosette could tell that he was preoccupied by something, but for Jean to be contemplative and somber was not unusual. To stop her worrying he told her as much of the truth as he was comfortable with - that someone at the hospital he recognised was suffering. At that, a spark of pride had been immediately apparent in her eyes, and her smile was affectionate. It pulled at Jean’s heart how much he wished for her to feel just that way about him, but his desire for such adoration made him feel dirty. He did not deserve it. 

He did visit Javert the following day, as promised. Javert was even more surly and bitter than any previous instance of Jean’s visiting, but Jean couldn't blame him. Javert had snatched the coffee cup from him before he said anything, taking two long gulps before he sat back with a sigh. Jean liked to think that Javert hadn't tried to end his life as soon as they had left the hospital because he really did enjoy, and look forward to, the coffee. 

“How are you feeling?” Jean said, taking a seat by the bedside. 

“How do you think?” Javert spat. “Don't ask me such idiotic questions.”

With the conversation shot down before it had even started, silence strangled the air between them. 

“I saw you, y’know,” Javert said eventually, apparently unable to stand the silence anymore. “At the protest. Taking them away.”

Jean's blood ran cold. Javert _could_ likely get him arrested for that, questioned at the very least. Javert noticed the change in his expression and smirked triumphantly. 

“That's right. I could call Chabouillet right now. Civil unrest, disturbance of the peace, harbouring criminals… I'm sure something would stick. Especially with your record.”

Jean lowered his head in defeat and submission. “That is your decision.”

When he had the strength to look back up, Javert's lip was curled in distaste. 

“I'll think about it,” he muttered. 

Jean had never been much good at conversation - he had spent his life actively avoiding it and ensuring he didn't share information about himself, so he felt his social skills were severely lacking. With Javert firing up his anxiety in such a small amount of words, Jean’s slim conversational abilities left him entirely. He remained until Javert finished his coffee and took his leave, glad to be free of the oppressive atmosphere and Javert's sullen stare. 

Why was he doing this? Javert was right, they were not friends, not even close. Why should he take it upon himself to help this man who considered him an enemy? A darker, more bitter side of Jean asked why Javert deserved help after all he had done. Jean tried to steer away from those thoughts. He wasn't that man anymore. Everyone had the right to receive help. 

But Javert didn't _want_ to be helped. Javert wanted to die. If that was his wish then… _was_ it cruel to force him to live?

He decided that these questions of morals were too distracting for the drive home, and focused on the road instead. Unfortunately, arriving in his quiet home started his mind spinning again. He saw Javert's serious young face from the academy photograph online, but he was younger still, the rain sticking his hair to his forehead, barking orders as if Jean were a dog, as if he were stupid. Jean had not understood all of the words at the time, but he knew when he was being insulted and degraded. Even if he didn't, the way the guards would shove them and spit on the ground at the sight of them told him enough. 

Javert's anger and hateful attitude perhaps hadn't dissipated, but cooled enough to simmer beneath the surface as he aged and his seriousness became that of authority. Ever a stickler for rules, his uniform was straight and spotless, and his manner towards a successful businessman suitably polite. That had angered Jean more than how he had been treated in Calais. That as soon as he appeared to be well-spoken, wealthy and successful, Javert would finally treat him with respect. 

Of course that hadn't been true, Javert had his suspicions and merely played the role society expected of him until they were confirmed. He had probably hated the respectful conversation as much as Jean had. Jean didn't know if that made him feel better or worse. As soon as Javert was able to denounce him as an illegal immigrant with a false identity, the fiery hate had returned to his eyes. 

Now his eyes seemed to regard Jean with a tired disdain. Why should Jean be the one to help, after all of that? Knowing that Javert would be forever disappointed that he hadn't managed to get Jean deported?

_Because we give aid to those who need it. We do not do it for the thanks or gratitude, but because it is necessary. All life is valuable._

Jean did what was familiar to him. He prayed for Javert, asked that he may find some hope in his darkest time. After a moment of contemplation over his clasped hands, he even went to his bedroom to unroll his prayer mat with uncertain fingers. 

He considered himself a pretty terrible Muslim, falling back on Christian practices when the faith of his homeland was too daunting for him to approach. But Jean had never felt part of any culture or community, and the same was true in faith. All three aspects were tied together and however he tried, Jean had never managed to retain a single solid identity. 

But Jean prayed for Javert, it mattered little what Allah thought of him in that moment, but he did as many prostrations as he could before he lost count and his knees began to ache. He sent an apology to Hadi too, for if it hadn't been for him Jean would have lost touch with Islam entirely. He really ought to do better. 

Practicing a different faith was a serious sin he ought to seek forgiveness for and cease, but both Christianity and Islam had helped him in different ways and in different periods of his life. He was reluctant to turn his back on either, and he wished to show his gratitude for the strength each faith had given him. He did not see why they had to be mutually exclusive, but he knew that was not the correct view to have and so he did not attend church or visit the mosque, but nurtured his own, personal and complex, relationship with faith to try and be a better person. 

He had always tried to escape his past, escape himself, but with a weary heart he accepted that it would always catch up to him again. He was never free. Meeting Javert had made it haunt his dreams again, but Jean couldn't blame him for that. It would've happened sooner or later. 

Jean spent his days distracted and his nights were haunted by the past. Javert did not help matters but Jean could not stop himself from visiting, convincing himself it was the right thing to do but growing more uncertain with each day that passed. 

He had an epiphany three days later, when he was trying and failing to sleep, imagining the shadow by the door to be Javert looming there with his handcuffs ready. Each day Javert would mention something that would set Jean's nerves on edge and say little else. The implication of potential arrest in every word. 

_He hadn't acted on it._

Not once had Chabouillet been waiting for Jean the next day with officers to take him in. For all his threats, Javert hadn’t told anyone about Jean being at the protest. So why did he continue to use it against him? The answer was suddenly clear to him. Javert _wanted_ to be feared. There was a kind of respect in fear. He was so lost and frail now that surely no one apart from Jean would have cause to fear him or be intimidated by him. If anyone else Javert had arrested in the past saw him now, they might indeed gloat as Javert had expected him to. He would hold no power over them, but he had power over Jean and he knew it. He would continue to remind him and enforce it to try and cling to the threads of his dignity that remained. 

Jean didn't sleep that night, but tried to think of how he could use this realisation to aid Javert. 

\-----

The next afternoon, Jean arrived at Javert's bedside with two coffees and a pair of croissants. The glare Javert shot at him might have stopped the heart of a man who was not expecting it, for a few beats at least, but Jean was prepared this time. He passed one cup to Javert and sat down. Defiant. This was a risky game to play and Jean’s nerves were already on edge. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked mildly, looking Javert dead in the eye.

Javert's left eye visibly twitched in irritation. “Shit.”

“Mm.” Jean sipped his own drink. 

It didn't take long for Javert's temptation to needle him came through. 

“Perhaps I’d feel better if I clapped cuffs on you.”

Jean shifted uncomfortably and averted his gaze. It wasn't a faked reaction, but one he would have hidden better ordinarily. 

“You don't have handcuffs,” he murmured. 

“I know plenty of people who do.”

“Chabouillet?”

“Ha! Like my boss would waste his time arresting the likes of you.”

Javert suddenly assessed him with suspicion, sensing he was being led somewhere. 

“Who then?” Jean risked. If Javert refused to answer now then at least they’d managed some kind of conversation and Jean had acquired new knowledge of Javert's life - that Chabouilett _was_ his superior. 

Javert turned his nose up and grimaced - a sure sign he recognised that Jean had played him, he was sure, but after a moment of silence, he provided his answer. 

“Rivette, probably. He's a trustworthy sort. Maybe a bit too soft. Too forgiving. But he follows orders well, so I wouldn't be concerned about him being swayed by you.”

Javert almost seemed proud of this colleague, and Jean counted this as another successful acquisition of information. 

“Hasn't he visited?” Jean couldn't help but wonder. 

“I did not wish for anyone to know,” Javert muttered. “I do not require their pity, or gossip in the office regarding my ‘accident’.”

Javert glared at him with renewed strength. “If _you_ start pitying me, I'll definitely have you arrested.”

He downed the rest of his coffee and shoved the pastry bag towards Jean after he took his croissant. “Now piss off and leave me in peace.”

“Alright, I'll see you tomorrow.”

Jean stood, taking Javert's empty cup, and was pleased to witness Javert take a bite of the buttered pastry. He left in higher spirits than the previous days, feeling like he was finally beginning to understand how to appease and communicate with Javert. The biggest hindrance to their conversation was Javert's pride. He was clinging to the last vestiges of his normality - how he used to behave and interact with the world, and even if he was unable to do that, if he allowed Jean’s company and offerings of coffee, his pride would not allow him to admit anything was different. 

Not yet, but Jean hoped they could get there eventually. 

Jean had his own experiences with depression, anxiety, and intrusive thoughts but didn't feel that Javert would appreciate hearing about his struggles, especially if he had been on the opposite side of those stories. The last thing Jean wanted was to make him feel guilty and make his feelings worse, but at least Jean knew that they had something of a shared experience with mental health. Even if Javert could not yet see it, Jean knew that depressive episodes did not last forever, and that vicious, self-destructive thoughts could fall silent. He had hope for Javert, despite all that had happened. 

Somehow, he just needed to convince Javert to accept the help he was offered. 

Jean spent his time alone researching now. At first he was hesitant to perhaps find out things about Javert's situation he would rather keep private, but in the end he decided that Javert wouldn't have to know what he looked up anyway. It was for Javert's benefit that Jean should be informed. 

Initially, he had just wanted an idea about living with paraplegia, dealing with a diagnosis and any potential health complications. He found charity websites full of information and browsed through forums on the topic, but the more he read, the deeper he delved. The typical initial responses for patients with spinal cord injuries, all the checks and scans, the waiting to see if the paralysis was temporary or not, the surgical procedures that followed to align the spine. 

He was thankful that Javert had been able to retain some degree of mobility, and had not damaged the spine at a higher point that might also affect his breathing. He did remember the ventilator that had been at Javert's bedside though and wondered about that too. 

_The Seine!_ he recalled. Javert had jumped into the river. Perhaps water had got into his lungs? So Jean had looked at the effects of near-drowning too. It seemed the most likely reason for that equipment to be there. 

With every session at his laptop, he discovered more. Javert might not want his sympathy but that didn't stop Jean from feeling it. How painful it must have been for him to go through all of this, alone, after losing all hope! Jean prayed for him every night and he cried when he thought of Javert in the river, maybe having instinctive thoughts of survival but unable to kick his legs… sinking… gasping… drowning...

Javert would have woken a broken man, in body and spirit, trapped with himself and his unhealthy state of mind, with doctors taking his last shreds of dignity. 

Jean took his bad moods and barbed words. He would take anything Javert threw at him if it offered some relief. The only problem was, Javert didn't seem to be getting any relief at all. His moods were declining and Jean was sure the only thing that stopped him being as bad as his first visits was his exhaustion. Jean wanted him to keep what dignity he could, and not be dragged kicking and screaming to the psychiatric unit. 

That evening, Jean was researching the details that Javert would never tell him - bladder and bowel care. He had hesitated before clicking into that section of the website, wondering if it was necessary for him to know this much, but a plan was beginning to form in his mind and the more informed he was, and the less he had to ask Javert directly, the better. 

He did not dwell on whether he was so focused due to his desire to help Javert, or his wish to be distracted from Cosette's comings and goings. 

\-----

Another day, another coffee. Jean entered the ward with his offerings and found Javert's curtain closed. That hadn’t happened since their trip outside, and Jean hesitated, wondering if Javert was having a checkup or assistance of some kind. 

He waited, just outside the curtain, and listened. There was no one speaking, no rustling of clothing or sheets, no exasperated sighs. Jean inched closer. 

“Javert?”

No answer. 

Jean pulled the curtain aside. Javert was there, in bed, arms tightly folded, staring directly ahead at nothing at all. 

“Javert? Here, I have your coffee.”

Jean extended it to him, and when Jean’s hand breached his personal space, he finally looked at him with a snarl and unsettlingly wild eyes. Before Jean could comprehend this attitude, Javert had smacked the coffee out of his hand, the lid came off and liquid spread out over the floor. 

“Fuck your coffee and _fuck_ you.”

Jean hurried to get paper towels, ignoring the scalding coffee seeping into his trouser leg. He returned, crouching down to mop up as much as he could before disposing of the empty cup and towels in the bin. Once he was finished, he had to look at Javert again, hunched up so tightly on himself, looking positively feral. Jean had overlooked his scraggly beard and lank hair in the past few weeks, but now he saw the complete, wretched image of Javert. 

“What's the matter?”

“I'm not dignifying that with an answer,” Javert muttered. “But perhaps I wasn't eloquent enough: fuck off and leave me alone.”

“Okay.”

Jean placed his own cup of coffee beside Javert with the bag of pastries. He hadn't added the sugar yet, so Javert could drink that instead. 

“I'll come by later.”

Javert put his head in his hands. “Are you deaf? Are you senile? Do you still not have a complete grasp of the fucking French language?”

“I hope you feel better-”

“I won't,” Javert snapped. 

Jean left. It wouldn't do any good for him to aggravate Javert, he could only hope that this mood would pass and he would settle down. Jean needed to make his suggestion soon, but he couldn't possibly have a conversation with Javert when he was in such a state. 

He had a class to teach in half an hour. Hopefully once that was finished, Javert would be ready to talk. Jean went directly to the community centre to set up and await his students. 

He felt terribly guilty when the class was underway, as his mind was so preoccupied with Javert and his nerves about having to speak to him again made him nauseas. If any of his students noticed, they were too polite to let it show. 

Even though he was well aware many of them would have questions about the uses of the grammar he was teaching, he made his excuses at the end of the class and told them to email him instead. That only made him feel worse as he got back into his car. He could have at least given more extensive examples and study sheets. 

Perhaps this Javert situation wasn't such a good idea if it was already driving him to distraction. Javert was likely to refuse his offer anyway, if he spoke at all. Maybe that would wash his hands of it, he had done everything that he could. Even if Javert was transferred to the psychiatric unit without his consent, they would treat him and his mental state would improve. Eventually. It wasn't necessary for Jean to be involved in all of that, and as he made his way back to the hospital, he felt foolish for his extensive research that he would never need to use. 

Now convinced Javert would either respond to him with derisive laughter or an expletive-laden question of Jean’s sanity, his worries had dissipated by the time he entered the ward. Javert's curtain was still closed and Jean wondered, with a heavy heart, if the doctors had to sedate him due to his temper. 

“Javert?” he attempted, feeling an uncanny sense of dejavu that was likely the result of this repeated scenario paired with Jean’s growing sense of dread about what he might discover beyond the curtain. 

“What?” came the unexpected response. 

“Oh, um, can I- Can I come in?”

“Sure. Why not,” Javert answered with an air of exhausted resignation. 

Jean slipped past the curtain to see Javert tired but calm, his eyes downcast. Was it an improvement of Javert's condition to have the fight taken out of him?

Jean cleared his throat. “May I sit?”

“Stop asking for my permission. Do what you want.”

“It's still important to ask,” Jean said, tentatively taking his seat. “Despite what you may think, your feelings matter.”

“To you, of all people,” Javert scoffed. 

They sat in silence, Javert still staring at the bedcovers, until he sighed and dropped his head back. 

“This morning was not… good.”

Was that an apology? An acknowledgment of his bad mood?

“After certain… unfortunate _incidents_ the nurse had to help with, the doctor still decided to meet with me about my referral. That I'm taking up needed bed space.”

“I'm sure he didn't say that.”

“It was implied. What's the point in even pretending as if I have a decision? He can sign the papers, saying I'm a risk to myself, and get me sectioned.”

“You're not getting sectioned.”

“What do you know about it?” Javert grumbled.

“Little, that's true, but it _is_ for your benefit, despite how it feels.”

The conversation faltered, and the quiet murmur of discussions could be heard through the curtain. 

“I had thought… to make you an offer.”

That did make Javert look at him. “You're making a deal with me?” 

He frowned at Jean, trying to calculate what this offer could possibly be. 

“Well… the doctor told me the main concern regarding discharging you was that you had no next of kin and no one living with you.” 

Now it was Jean that averted his gaze, not wanting to see realisation dawn on Javert's face. He barrelled on before he could be interrupted. 

“And, well, I just thought, if you agreed to transfer to this psychiatric ward, you could… You'd be welcome to say at my house, to help them discharge you quicker.”

When he did look up, he found that Javert's frown had deepened. 

“Why?” was all he asked, in genuine bewilderment. 

“Well I… just thought you'd be more likely to go if you knew that you had a way out.”

“They would send me anyway.”

“But your recovery might be better if you were willing.”

“Why does that matter to you?”

Jean shrugged a shoulder. “Many reasons that you probably wouldn't want to believe, but I suppose simply put, it's as I said before: your feelings matter.”

Javert pinched the bridge of his nose. “You're something else, you know that?”

“I have been told, usually in less polite terms.”

“So… I just have to agree to a thing they’re going to force me to do regardless?” Javert asked after a moment.

“Yes.” Jean was surprised that the offer had even been considered.

Javert scrutinised him, searching his face for something. A lie? An ulterior motive? He didn’t appear to find it and laid back, closing his eyes.

“Maybe I’ll think about it.”

“Alright,” Jean said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. “I should leave you to rest… Do you… Should I come back tomorrow?”

“You’re the one trying to prove your honesty and you did say you would provide me with coffee every day.”

Javert’s face was entirely neutral as he spoke, and his eyes remained closed.

“Okay… I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Jean stood to make his exit.

“Take your pastry.”

Jean looked to the bedside table where the pastry bag he had brought more than an hour ago sat. It was not in the exact position he had left it, and when Jean picked it up he discovered Javert had eaten his share and kept the second to give to him on his return. He picked up the coffee cup beside it and found that it was as empty as he’d hoped. 

Jean pulled the curtain aside enough to get through and turned back to smile at Javert.

“Until tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll say now my huge thank you to groucha for being my research assistant for details of modern france (laws, sentencing, social care among other things), you're help has been absoultely vital in making this story as real as possible  
> Additional thanks go to cybermanalo for answering other queries on French life for me <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thanks to avatoh and emm for betaing as always <3

To the relief of Jean and the doctors, Javert did agree to be transferred to Sainte -Anne’s a few days later. Jean heard it from Doctor Labesse first, who caught him in the corridor and thanked him for getting Javert to come around to the idea. Once again, he spoke in a manner in which he assumed Jean already knew, and Jean quelled his surprise. 

Javert didn't mention it himself when Jean spoke to him, so he didn't either. There was still an air of resignation about him, but it wasn't so bleak. To have a strategy for his immediate future seemed to settle him. 

The following day, they were quietly sipping coffee together, with Jean swallowing all of his questions down with it, when the doctor visited again. 

“Hello, Javert. Good to see you, Monsieur.”

Jean nodded his response. 

“Javert, you will be moved to Sainte Anne’s on Monday morning, unless your mental health deteriorates before then. You're doing extremely well and if you can manage here a bit longer, it will be beneficial to give them time to prepare for your arrival properly.”

“Okay.”

“Would you like Monsieur Valjean to accompany you?”

Javert looked just as surprised as Jean felt by the suggestion. Javert's eyes darted to him, before flicking back to the doctor.

“Uh…”

To not receive an immediate denial was even more surprising to Jean. He supposed if Javert really did hate the idea of the place so much, it might be less stressful to have a familiar face, even if it was Jean’s. 

“Sure. Whatever. If he wants,” Javert muttered as the doctor opened his mouth to speak. 

“Very good. You should ask him to bring anything you need from your home - extra clothes and such. Well then, I'll leave you to it. Monsieur Valjean, be here at 8:30 on Monday so we can be ready for the transport at 9:00.”

“I will.”

They were left in silence. He had shared many silences with Javert, and none of them entirely comfortable. 

“Ah, if you do want me to get your belongings, I will need to know your address.”

“Hm.”

“I ought to leave you my phone number…? So you can think about the things you need and let me know.”

Javert seemed to be lost in thought, frowning at nothing. Jean found the coffee receipt in his pocket and wrote his number on the back of it. He wondered what Javert would name the contact in his phone, and shook his head at the notion. It didn't matter, so long as Javert used the number. He probably wouldn't even add it as a contact on principle. 

“I suppose I should get goin-”

“I can't even think of what I'd need.”

“Clothes are a good place to start,” Jean said, settling back down in his seat. “I don't have to only do one trip, if you forget something I can always go back.”

“I'll text you the address,” Javert muttered, casting a sidelong glance at Jean's number. “Don’t go abusing the privilege. Maybe you can give me the heads up when you're going to arrive here, but don't start texting me random shit and checking up on me all the time. If you try and _call_ me, I'll block you.”

“Alright, okay, I've got it.”

“And there isn't anything of value in my apartment, so I wouldn't even bother thinking what you might be able to steal.” He buzzed for assistance. 

Jean sighed. “As I was saying, I need to get going. See you tomorrow, and don't worry, you won't hear from me until then.”

“You need a key don't you? I know you probably don't _need_ one, but I'd rather you didn't cause a fuss in my apartment block.” 

A nurse came into the room and Javert requested his coat so that he could retrieve his keys. Jean snatched them when they were offered and turned on his heel. No snide remarks followed him out. 

Jean left the hospital in a bitter mood. Did he really want Javert to live in his home? He shook his head, his _wants_ did not matter, and it was too late now - the deal was done. 

He worried about Javert infecting Cosette's mind with the worst opinions of him, but that was selfish too. Javert would only tell her the truth that Jean had been too cowardly to grant her. She was drifting from him anyway, blossoming into independence and adulthood, this would merely tear off the plaster quickly rather than hesitantly picking at it, afraid of the pain it would cause. 

Sometimes he felt as if he had been afraid all of his life - certainly before he ever arrived in France, but coming to this country had only made it worse. It made him so tired, and nowadays it often made him feel like giving up. Fortunately, he was not a wanted man any longer, but he would give up arguing with Javert, fall behind on his prayers and become despondent. Part of him even grotesquely craved the simplicity of imprisonment, of having his choices removed, living day by day at a grindstone with no thoughts at all. The simplicity of punishment and penance. 

Such thoughts confused and scared him. He had hated prison, he was as alone there as he had been everywhere else. Javert had commented on his strength once, and had considered him dangerous. He would probably be amused to learn that for all his physical strength, Jean was afraid of his own shadow. 

He went through his class by rote once again, and was left feeling even worse for doing so. He forced smiles and a pleasant demeanour for Cosette, after having his head in the freezer and the ice biting into his palms before she came home. 

Jean couldn't remember what they talked about. He managed to cook the dinner without burning it, and he tried his best to focus on _Les Petite Maison Dans La Prairie_. He excused himself early with a headache and shut himself up in his room. He didn't want to. There was nothing to stop his thoughts creeping to the darkest corners of his mind when he was alone. But Cosette would detect something was wrong if he was around her any longer, and Jean didn't want to talk about it. He could not burden her with his troubles. 

He stood in his dark room, hearing Cosette's distant and muffled voice talking on the phone. He could feel himself trembling and his breath hitching, so he closed his eyes, clenched his fists and focused on inhaling and exhaling evenly. Before he could get upset or wallow in self pity again, he rolled out the prayer mat. 

Jean was still performing protestations for forgiveness by the time he heard Cosette moving between her bedroom and the bathroom, preparing for bed. He stopped only because she might hear the creak of the floorboards and wonder why he was not in bed. He remained in his kneeling position, pressing his forehead to the ground. 

_I know I am unworthy. My body is not clean, I carry marks I regret but cannot erase. Some I_ cannot _regret, and because I can't ask your forgiveness for them with an honest heart, I am unworthy._

_My mind is not clean. It's filled with fear and doubt, because I am mortal, but more so because of my sins. There is still a seed of hate inside me. I feel it and I fear it and I direct the hate towards myself instead._

_I cannot ask you for guidance. I do not deserve it. I am not as repentant as I ought to be, I know. I am not worthy of your love. But I ask for the strength to help others, those who are worthy. To be able to support Cosette just a little longer, until she doesn't need me anymore. To continue to do what little I can for my students and the homeless. For Javert. He is just a man. I bear him no ill will. I forgive him. I forgive him now and I will try and do what is right. I just… need the strength to do so._

_Please. If it is your will, please…_

When he finally crawled into bed, exhaustion granted him a dreamless sleep, but he did not awaken refreshed the next morning. He was just as exhausted. His legs felt too heavy to move but the chirruping of his alarm enforced what was expected of him, reminded him of the responsibilities he had. 

He forced himself out of bed and into the shower. He forced a smile for Cosette when she left. Then all was quiet and there was no need to pretend - for a little while at least. But to stop was dangerous. It was always harder to put on a convincing lie if he had indulged in any self-pity. 

Jean looked at his phone to see how much time he had before he could go to the shelter, and saw a message notification. The only messages he ever expected were either from Cosette or a shift change at work. As both of those were unlikely, the only possibility that remained was Javert. 

He wasn't surprised to see that the message was literally just an address, not even ‘Javert’ at the end. If it wasn't surprising, it shouldn't have been so disappointing. Jean didn't reply, and tried to forget about Javert all together when it was finally time for him to go to the shelter. He was partially successful - only in quiet moments did Jean's mind stray from his work. 

He found the courage to return to the hospital in the afternoon. He didn't text Javert to forewarn him of his arrival. Perhaps that was petty. 

The privacy curtain was pulled aside this time, and Javert looked up at the sound of Jean’s shoes. Jean passed him his coffee before he said anything, and Javert accepted it without a word. Neither of them spoke and Jean barely looked at him. He had only brought coffee this time, and he left as soon as he was finished. Javert gave no audible response to this behaviour. 

Jean was left alone, trapped with his downward spiral of thoughts for the rest of the evening. A shackle gripping at his ankle, pulling him deeper and deeper, down into the abyss. And so his soul suffocated, unable to breach the surface of that black, impenetrable ocean of depression. 

\----

The entirety of the following day passed the same way as that evening, in a distant haze. Jean couldn't recall the conversations he'd had, or what he had done with any specificity. 

Cosette asked him if something was wrong and he said he had not managed to shift his headache. He had been lying about so many things for so long now that it was easy for him to do but it never _felt_ easy. The guilt always accumulated afterwards. 

His phone chimed at 11pm, and he didn't have the courage to look at it for an hour. Eventually he decided that the anxiety of thinking about it was probably worse than seeing it, and so he opened the message. 

_Hey. Just bring what you feel like carrying on Monday. I don't have that many clothes anyway_

_-Javert_

Was this Javert trying to make up for his previously blunt manner? Jean liked to think so. He was able to sleep with a lighter heart after reading that but he was unable to escape his dreams. He was not often fortunate enough not to be plagued by them. 

_He was running, branches catching at his clothes and whipping at his face. His feet stumbled. Dogs barked. There was no time to stop. He could hear one scampering to catch up to him. A growl, and then another tirade of barks, echoed by more dogs further behind accompanied by yelling of words he did not understand. He tried to speed up. His chest burned._

_He cried out when the dog caught hold of his trouser leg. He flailed, trying to kick it off, and turned-_

_The growl was a continuous rumble of thunder, loud and deep and terrifying. The animal itself was coal-black, fur bristling, and monstrously huge. Jean was immobilized by sheer, primal terror. It’s eyes were blood red, and blood poured from its mouth when it opened its jaws, despite not puncturing Jean’s skin._

_“RRrrrr… arrrrh… JarRRahh…”_

_Jean shuddered. “لا أرجوك”_

_He took a stumbling step backwards, and the creature reared up, bellowing, spitting blood from its vicious maw. “IMMIGRANT! IMMIGRANT! GET OUT! GET OUT! JARRRRRAAH!”_

_The voice was distorted, yet familiar. Jean dropped to the floor as the beast lunged, and for some reason heard himself murmur, “I legally changed my name…”_

_The animal loomed over him, a shadow blocking all light, and snorted. “FUCK you.”_

_“... Javert.”_

_The wolf snapped, inches from Jean’s face, warm blood dripping onto his cheeks like tears. Jean swallowed, raising a shaking hand towards it._

_“You are in pain.”_

_Another snap, and this time the beast whirled away from him, an anguished cry disappearing into the darkness._

_When Jean stood, everything was silent. He could see lights in the distance, and when he made his way towards them, he found himself in front of an unattended lorry. The engine was off and he stood in front of the headlights until he felt a presence near him. A shadow lingering at the edge of his vision. He hurried to the back, but the doors were locked. After some hesitation, he tried the cab door too but found that locked as well._

_He could hear barking once again. Dogs or that monstrous creature? He crawled underneath the vehicle and waited. There was nowhere else to hide. He would be found soon enough._

_A screech of nails on metal made Jean cover his ears. When he took his hands away, heavy breathing could be heard that wasn't his own. He could see an approaching shadow to his left, coming up from the back of the lorry with slow, but sure steps._

_“A thief. A liar. A cheat. I smell it.”_

_Could he reason with it? Had he ever been able to reason with Javert?_

_“I smell the bad blood in you. Blood cannot change.”_

_The movement stopped and Jean held his breath._

_“I can smell it… So close… I can almost… TASTE IT!” The head of the beast appeared under the lorry, bigger than it was before - it struggled to get underneath._

_It's crimson eyes bulged, and it's mouth foamed red as it shoved itself closer to Jean. It snarled and spat, jerking it's head side to side as it fought its way forward._

_“Javert? You- you are unwell,” Jean tried again, but his words had no effect._

_“I will EAT your bleeding heart! I can smell it Jarrrraah! I can smell your deceit! You will never fool me! When I rip your heart out everyone will see what you always were!”_

_Suddenly the engine kicked into life, momentarily deafening them. The beast hesitated, and Jean grabbed hold of a rope that hung above him, hauling himself up and fitting his toes against the undercarriage. The vehicle lurched into life, rolling forward, and the beast was gone._

_The ground rushed by under him, and Jean squeezed his eyes shut. His body ached, his hands were sweaty. Could he hear the beast running after him? It was almost impossible to hear anything. If he slipped, he would die. Colliding with the road, going under the wheels, or caught in Javert's jaws._

_Did it matter? His sister has surely forgotten him, or hated him, certainly she wouldn't want to see him again. No one would miss him. Where was he trying to go?_

_Cosette… Was Cosette at home? He needed to find her, and care for her. He had promised._

_“No…” He felt himself slipping. “No-”_

“No!”

Jean woke up panting, the bedsheet clenched tightly in his hands. He looked to the reassuring dawn light creeping in through the window, and slowed his breathing. He curled up safely under the duvet, not wanting to close his eyes on the light. 

How silly to dream of Javert as some kind of fantastical monster! And to be so afraid of it! Jean tried to focus on the absurdity of it, despite how it still unsettled him. 

He wiped his face and found that his cheeks were wet. He hesitated before looking at his hand, worried for a nonsensical moment that it would be bloody. He shook his head, trying to shake some sense into himself. Today he would visit Javert's apartment. He tried to focus on that, wondering if he could discover more information that would help him understand Javert. 

His curiosity about seeing Javert's residence made it far easier to get out of bed than the previous few days. The distraction enabled him to greet Cosette with ease, have breakfast with her and not have too many doubts when she left to visit Marius. He hadn’t wanted to continue to insist that he chauffeur her everywhere since she had returned to school, he didn't want the rift between them to expand again. 

Once she had gone, Valjean set out to Javert's apartment, feeling some degree of trepidation about what he might learn. He reminded himself of what had driven Javert to make an attempt on his life. A man who felt such responsibility and guilt over the death of a child could not be a monstrous beast. Javert was entirely human, with faults and feelings like any other. He was in pain and adrift in the world. Jean could relate. Myriel had given him strength, given him opportunities to live a decent life, and made him think that he was worthy enough to try and attain it. Javert needed the same guidance and Jean would do what he could for him. 

He felt self-conscious entering the apartment block, expecting someone to accuse him of not living there and acting suspicious, but he reached the sixth floor without anyone so much as sparing a glance in his direction. He took the elevator so he could gauge how easy it would be for Javert to live here now that he required a wheelchair. From the main entrance to the sixth floor, everything so far seemed manageable. 

When Jean reached number 642, he took out the keys Javert had given him. There was only one that appeared to be for this door, the other two on the ring were smaller and thinner. The chosen key slipped into the lock easily and Jean took a breath before he opened the door. 

He slid inside and immediately closed the door behind him. The first thing he noticed was the mail under his feet. He quickly stepped aside and crouched down to scoop them up. He kept hold of them until he made it to the living room to look at them in better light. The hallway was dingy, having no window for natural light to enter. It might be better if some of the doors were open but they all appeared to be firmly shut.

Jean made an assessment of his immediate surroundings. It was just about wide enough for a wheelchair - fortunately there were no cupboards, storage boxes or shoe racks otherwise the path would have been obstructed. There were three hooks close to the door on the right wall. The first was empty, a leather jacket hung on the second and a long coat, presumably for winter, on the third. A closed door was beyond them, another beyond that, and a third door was opposite him, at the other end of the hallway. The wall to his left was pale and blank, whose only feature of note was the light switch. Jean flipped it to make a better assessment. 

Beneath the coats were two pairs of shoes, neatly arranged with their toes to the wall. A pair of well worn trainers and a pair of dress shoes polished to perfection despite the wear on the heels. Both were old but clean. Jean toed his own shoes off, taking this arrangement as a sign that shoes were not worn inside. He realised that he recognised Javert's long coat as the same one he had worn in Montreuil. It's navy colour was no longer nearly black, but had become paler from use. 

Jean opened the first door to reveal a storage cupboard containing a toolbox, a vacuum, and neatly stacked boxes. Behind the next door was the bathroom, which was a reasonable size, but he wondered if Javert would have space to manoeuvre. Javert's ability to use the bath or shower was another conundrum which applied to Jean's own bathroom. He might need to ask the doctors for advice on that closer to the time. 

The door at the end of the hallway lead to the bedroom, and Jean realised that the hallway opened out into the kitchen and living room on his left. He investigated this first, leaving the bedroom until last. It was an open plan space, from the doorway the kitchen was on his left, and the living room on his right. Jean realised he ought to remove any food Javert had as it was likely to go off, if it hadn't already. He decided to come back in the afternoon to sort through it and bring disposal bags.

The living room, like the hall, was pale and bare. A slightly sagging sofa sat in the centre of the room, in front of a small TV on top of a storage unit. A small square table was to its left, with a laptop and stack of papers on its surface. A single chair was tucked underneath it and against the wall behind it was a bookshelf of file and folders. On the corner of the kitchen counter next to it was a compact stereo. 

Jean put his handful of letters on the kitchen counter and considered them in turn. A couple of official-looking envelopes - bills or bank statements, some junk mail - advertisements, fast food leaflets… and then a hand-written note. 

> _Fucking fascist! We don't want you here! Fuck off somewhere else._

Was this because of the aftermath of the protest, or did Javert often receive these kinds of messages? This apartment block was in what some might term a rough neighbourhood (Jean would call it a lack of government investment), with residents that were perhaps on the wrong side of the law. Had Javert received a message like this before he jumped into the river?

Jean didn't think so. Javert wouldn't allow someone else to hold such power over him. He scrunched the note up and stuffed it into his pocket, the rest of the junk mail found its home in the bin, and Jean pocketed the important letters to give to Javert. 

Then, finally, the bedroom. Jean set the duffel bag he had brought to pack Javert's clothes into on the bed. He wasn't surprised that this room was as barren as the rest of the apartment, but he did feel pity and he was glad of the offer he had made to Javert. Jean couldn't imagine him returning to this cold and lonely place when he needed to readjust to society. Even if Javert didn't like him, at least he would have someone around if needed and a more vibrant living space, full of different ways of occupying one’s mind. 

There wasn't a picture on a wall, or even a photo frame. The whole apartment was devoid of life. The bed was made with absolute precision, and the bedside cabinet housed a lamp and an alarm clock. Despite the uniform, precise blandness, this room did hold some of Javert's personality that the rest of the apartment didn't. The bookshelf didn't hold paperwork, but a small set of classic novels, law books, and most surprisingly: books of astronomy, physics, and a large star atlas. 

Jean set to work on the wardrobe. It contained mostly white shirts, and a few pairs of dark chinos. He packed a few and then raided the drawers for socks and underwear. He discovered a pair of jeans and sweatpants in his search, as well as a couple of plain t-shirts which he folded and placed in the bag. He also found navy pyjama bottoms and a long-sleeved, button down top to match, and packed these too. 

His job done, Jean went back into the bathroom in case there was anything Javert might need from there. Surely the hospital provided the necessities, but Jean decided to take the deodorant and Javert's own hairbrush and comb so he could feel more like himself. 

He made a final scan of the apartment, and considered arranging for a cleaner to come in and dust once a week so the place didn't suffer for Javert's extended absence. He would look into it when he returned to sort out the food. 

He decided to take the ratty trainers as he passed them in the hall on his way to the door. Finally satisfied that he had everything he needed, Jean headed back home to drop off the bag before going to the hospital. He was far less trepidatious now he had been privy to Javert's private life. It had solidified Javert's humanity, seeing those books on his shelf and the lonely life he appeared to lead. 

Jean parked near the coffee shop, as usual, and walked over to the hospital once he had the regular peace offering in his hands. 

“Hey,” Javert greeted somewhat petulantly when Jean arrived.

“Hi.”

Jean handed Javert his coffee, which he accepted with both hands. 

“I picked up your clothes and these letters looked important enough for me to bring you,” Jean said, handing over the envelopes from his pocket. 

Javert glanced at them before setting them aside. “Thanks. Well, are you just gonna linger there? You might as well sit down if you're going to drink. You'll affect my digestion otherwise.”

Jean pulled up the chair and sat, looking at Javert properly for the first time in days. Perhaps he did look something like a scraggly wolf, Jean thought with some amusement. Javert's sideburns were thicker than ever and a beard covered his jaw. Both were flecked with silver, reminding Jean once more how many years had passed since they last met. It had been a different time and hopefully they were both wiser now. 

“You are coming tomorrow? To Sainte Anne's?”

“Yes. If you still want me to.”

“Well you do need to bring my clothes.”

“It'll be fine,” Jean assured, sensing Javert's anxiety about the move. “It will be a much nicer atmosphere than here, I am sure.”

“I know it will be fine,” Javert muttered. “I'm not a child.”

“I don't think anyone would mistake you for one,” Jean couldn't help but say, earning him a snort from Javert. 

“I'll be here. 8:30 tomorrow.”

Javert nodded but didn't make his usual blunt indication that Jean should leave, so he remained a few minutes longer. He was often at a loss for what to say, but this time the silence didn't seem so bad.

“Your arrival is not consistent,” Javert suddenly said. “I haven't been able to decipher a pattern in your visits. Don't you have a job?”

“I do. I'm a French teacher at a community centre. Part-time.”

Javert did not snort in derision as Jean had expected him to, so he continued. 

“But I have other obligations. Helping at the homeless shelter, maintaining the public park, and sometimes I need to do things for my daughter. Though that's becoming less frequent,” he couldn't help but add with a sad smile. 

“Hm.”

Javert didn't look pleased by this information, and frowned at his hands in his lap. He didn't argue either. He appeared to be processing it. 

“Well, I will see you tomorrow morning then,” Jean said as he stood, not wanting to push his luck. 

“Hm,” Javert repeated. 

As he left, Jean reflected that he knew how difficult it was to have no choice in your future. It hadn't really been Javert's decision to go to Sainte Anne’s, whatever happened it was inevitable that he would end up there. Javert would be keenly aware of this and Jean could only hope that it would indeed be the best place for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok these chapters are pretty bleak so [here's](https://enbyartblog.tumblr.com/post/190465554434/something-for-the-fic-all-is-not-lost-a-preview) a vision of the happier future that awaits!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the update delay! x.x  
> everything's crazy for everyone rn, I hope you're all safe!
> 
> Warning for this chapter: brief hint to Valjean self-harming in the past
> 
> Disclaimer: Centre Hospitalier Sainte-Anne is a real psychiatric clinic in Paris that look very lovely, however all detail of how it's run and how they might care for their patients is fiction in this story!

Jean was at the hospital at precisely 8:30, as promised, the duffel bag of Javert's clothes with him. He could immediately sense Javert’s anxieties in the tension of his shoulders and the avoidance of his gaze. Avoidance and anxiety were strange things to consider in the formerly fearsome inspector, and Jean’s mind couldn’t stretch so far as to think he might be _fearful_. Javert snatched the bag from him when it was offered, attempting his ordinary gruff aloofness but merely proving his discomfort and restlessness. 

“I will get dressed.”

“Do you-”

“I do _not_ need help,” Javert snapped. “But draw the curtain.”

It took some minutes of rustling, sighing and muttering before Javert spoke again. 

“Jean. The chair isn't in the right position.”

Jean slipped past the curtain, to see Javert dressed in his sweatpants and grey t-shirt, sitting on the edge of the bed with the beaten up trainers on his feet. Jean had never seen him so dressed-down, but he suspected sweatpants were easier for him to get into. 

“It needs to face that wall,” Javert pointed to behind the head of the bed, and Jean aligned the chair as instructed. “Make sure the brakes are on.”

Javert then shakily attempted to manoeuvre himself into the chair, but seemed to lack the required upper body strength. He grabbed hold of Jean’s arm when he had second thoughts about lifting his body by pressing against the chair seat with his other hand. Jean supported him wordlessly and offered his other arm for Javert to take, trying to help as little as possible so they could both pretend Javert had managed on his own. Once he was in the chair, Javert sat back with a sigh. 

He recovered himself after a moment, dragging the bag towards him, digging around inside it and retrieving his hairbrush. He gathered his hair over one shoulder and began making it presentable. Jean watched him perform the routine with something akin to hope and satisfaction. Javert taking care of his appearance was a positive sign in his attitude towards himself. Once Javert's long, thick hair had been completely untangled (quite roughly, to Jean’s dismay), Javert took a hair tie from the brush handle and gathered it into a ponytail. 

A sigh drew Jean’s attention back to Javert's face, and he noticed how drawn and tired he looked. The task of getting ready was no longer a simple one for Javert, but he would never admit that. Jean only hoped it would get easier and less exhausting with time, as Javert regained his strength and grew accustomed to this life. 

An expression of grim determination crossed Javert's face before he pushed himself forward, coming around to the end of the bed. Jean opened the curtain completely to find a nurse waiting outside. 

“Doctor Labesse will be here in a minute to see you off,” he said. 

As if summoned, the doctor came in barely half a minute later, with a woman Jean didn't recognise. 

“Ah, Javert! All set?” Javert didn't dignify this obvious question with an answer, and the doctor continued unperturbed. “I'd like to introduce you to Doctor Valère-Martin. She will be part of the team at Sainte-Anne’s on your ward.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Javert. I promise you'll settle in with us just fine. You can call me Noëlle, if you like.”

“Yeah,” Javert said, before giving Jean a pointed look which showed how likely he thought anyone would find meeting him to be ‘a pleasure’. 

“She will accompany you both over and get you settled in. I wish you all the best, Javert.”

“Hm.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Jean said, shaking his hand. 

“Have patience, time heals all wounds as they say. It will be difficult, but that doesn't mean it isn't worth the effort,” Labesse assured. 

“But don't take too much on your own shoulders,” he continued privately to Jean once they were heading down the corridor, Javert and Noëlle a few paces in front. “His care is the responsibility of Sainte-Anne's now, and if you need help, you must say so.”

“Thank you.”

Labesse left them at the end of the corridor and they made their way outside to a waiting minibus. The driver opened the back doors and lowered the ramp for them. Javert went first, into an empty space behind a passenger seat. The driver followed, greeting him warmly and kneeling to attach the straps on the floor to the wheelchair, explaining what he was doing all the way. Jean took the seat across from him, and Noëlle took the one in front. 

They set off with the local radio station accompanying them, pleasantly filling the silence. Javert's face remained turned towards the window for the entirety of the journey, which fortunately wasn't too long. 

Jean hadn't been able to focus on anything apart from how Javert would react to Sainte-Anne's. He tried to convince himself Javert had brushed his hair to make a good impression and he wouldn't immediately start arguments with the staff and counteract that effort. Even so, he was glad when they came to a stop so that the whole thing could be over and done with. 

“Here we are!” Noëlle said with an enthusiasm Javert plainly did not share. 

Jean took it upon himself to untether Javert's chair as the driver lowered the ramp and Noëlle stepped out. Javert didn't even glance at him, and immediately turned and went down the ramp as soon as he was able. 

Noëlle thanked the driver and Jean followed suit. Javert remained silent. 

The place was reminiscent of a monastery, with its old sandy coloured buildings surrounding them in a square, with archways leading out to other areas between them. This arrangement protected them from the bustle and noise of Paris, and made it feel entirely separate from the city. 

“You can see our gardens over there.” Noëlle said, pointing through the archway. “You're welcome to go whenever you wish, but I'm afraid you will need a chaperone. They're very calm and beautiful, there are sculptures and beehives… It's our own mini Luxembourg!” She laughed. 

Smiles came easily to her round face, and there was no question that they were genuine. Her eyes were kind and gentle, and if one were to imagine the kind of doctor they would want caring for them, Noëlle seemed to be exactly what anyone could hope for. 

They were led inside to a small, bland yet welcoming reception, and it was explained that they would be taken directly to Javert's room to not overload them with too much information. 

“Your room is on the ground floor so that you have easy access to everything. We have group therapy sessions and creative classes - lots of activities down here that you may utilise.”

Jean thought he knew exactly what Javert's opinion of such things would be, just from his noncommittal grunt. Jean followed along behind them, losing himself in his own explorations, taking in everything they passed, the sense of calm that seemed to exist here. 

“Here we are,” she announced, opening a door for them. 

Javert looked around curiously once they were inside. It was the most attention he had given to anything since leaving the hospital.

“I have my own room?”

“Yes. I hope it is suitable. There's a call button by the bed if you need us for anything. You will have nurses and doctors coming to check on you regularly, so expect visitors.”

Noëlle gestured to the bathroom. “We have support railings, a commode seat, the bathing seat for showering, but please do say if we need to have further equipment or adjustments for you. Doctor Labesse sent over your records but I would still like to have a consultation with you today, to identify the kind of physical help you need while you are here, but I'll let you get settled first. I'm sure Monsieur Valjean wouldn't mind helping you with that, and I'll come back in a couple of hours to show you where to eat.”

Javert had returned to his silence, so Jean responded. “Thank you very much. I'm sure we will be fine.”

An unabashed lie, but Jean couldn't walk out and force her to stay with Javert. ‘A couple of hours’ seemed a frighteningly long time when it would be the longest he had been in Javert's company ‘voluntarily’. It certainly wasn't voluntary for Javert, and could only just barely be described as such for Jean. 

Noëlle left, and Javert began to look around the room, investigating the bathroom, the drawers and cupboards. 

“No locks on the doors. I shouldn't be surprised.”

“You can lock the front door,” Jean gestured. 

“Obviously they will still be able to open it.”

Jean shrugged. “It's something. The room is nice.”

“The space is sufficient.” Javert conceded. “I imagine the window is reinforced and sealed.”

“But it offers wonderful light.”

“It's light.” Javert said with a frown. “But you suppose I should be grateful they've not actually locked me in a bare, windowless room.”

Jean fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I appreciate it, that's all.”

Javert mererly grunted, taking the bag that Jean still held, and setting it on his lap. He began removing each item of clothing, folding them each in turn and setting them in the wardrobe drawers. Jean walked over to the window and looked out. There wasn't much to see, but it was something, the light was enough. Javert wouldn't be able to stand to see the view anyway. 

“Maybe the coffee will be to your taste here.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” Javert muttered. “You don't have to hang around here, there are better ways to spend your time.”

“I'll stay until the doctor comes back,” Jean said, opting to sit on the end of the bed. 

Javert sighed. “I'm not sure I'll ever understand you, and I'm tired of asking you why you do this shit.” 

To Jean's surprise, Javert came over to the bed, aligned his chair, and leaned across to pull himself up onto the mattress. He managed it himself, but Jean could see the effort it took. He shifted to sit fully and comfortably on the bed beside Jean. Their legs almost touched. 

“Don't look so shocked,” Javert said with a snort. “I do want to be places other than that chair. Besides, the doctor says it's good to move elsewhere. It prevents sores and that kind of thing.”

“Of course. Yes. It's very good.”

“But?”

“Oh, well, it was foolish of me to have any thoughts otherwise.”

“Yet I still want to hear it.”

Jean cleared his throat awkwardly, knowing he shouldn't speak his mind. “It's just that I was surprised by how… normal you looked. I'm sorry- I know-”

Javert held up his hand. “It's good that I might still pass as a ‘normal’ person on some occasions.”

“It's not just about your disability. You're dressed normally. You're… human.”

“Hah!” This appeared to be a genuine bark of laughter at least. “Had you always assumed that I was a robot or something?”

“Don't be silly. It's just… It can be difficult to see past the uniform y'know?”

“Hm.”

Suddenly, Javert tipped backwards and Jean twisted around in concern, but Javert had merely flopped onto his back. He regarded the ceiling with surprise. 

“Well that's something. The bed is surprisingly soft.”

Jean pushed against the mattress with his hand. “Yeah, it seems so.”

Javert looked more relaxed like this. More relaxed than Jean had ever known him to be at least. 

Jean surveyed the room, waiting for Javert to speak again. When he didn't, Jean looked back at him to find that he had drifted to sleep. The bed really must have felt comfortable to him, Jean thought with a smile. This was no fake slumber to avoid conversation, Javert's lips were slightly parted, the edges of his top front teeth visible. His chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths. 

Jean watched. It was relaxing to do so, and Jean considered this phenomenon. No longer did he feel as if he were watching a tiger sleep, that would jump up and growl at him with any creak or sound he might make. Javert was a man, just a man. No uniform pulled him together or elevated him above anybody else. Just a man, asleep and vulnerable. 

He would never have considered Javert could be vulnerable, yet here he was. If Jean were to reach out and touch his leg, Javert wouldn't wake. He wouldn't feel it. Jean had the absurd urge to do so as he thought about it, to feel the reality of Javert-the-man. He resisted. 

When the doctor returned, Javert awoke with a grunt, followed by an awkward lurch of his body which Jean realised must have been his immediate instinct to move his legs and sit up. 

“I can come back later if you like?” Noëlle said. 

“No,” Javert muttered, pushing himself up. “I could do with some lunch. Coffee at least.”

“We have much more for you than that,” Noëlle smiled, allowing him to struggle back into his chair on his own, yet primed to jump in and assist if need be. 

“Okay,” Javert said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Let's go.”

They followed Noëlle out and down the corridor, and every healthcare worker they passed smiled and greeted them. Jean smiled and nodded in return, knowing that Javert wouldn't, but this time he couldn't blame him. It _was_ a little overwhelming, and Javert didn't appear to register that they had even spoken. 

The cafeteria wasn't far away, and there appeared to be a great variety of food. Classical music played through the overhead speakers, and large windows flooded the room with natural light. The room was half full, yet still quiet. Patients talking to their nurses, or each other, some in silent contemplation. 

“Please, help yourselves,” Noëlle gestured to the counters. “I'll be at that table over there, take your time.”

Javert eyed what was on offer with suspicion. “Too much choice,” he muttered. “And what are all these catering staff for? In case I decide to stab someone with a plastic spoon?”

Jean was also daunted by the variety and expectant gazes waiting for a decision. He grabbed a simple sandwich at random, not even paying attention to what it contained, and placed it on a tray. Javert followed suit, except he considered the fillings before he made his selection, adding it to Jean’s tray. Jean would be content with his decision, but thought Javert needed to have more sustenance than that, yet he was also mindful of Javert's apparent dislike of arbitrary choices. He grabbed a few things from the fruit bowl, before finishing up at the coffee machine, and waited for two cups to be filled. 

A handful of sugar packets appeared on their tray as the machine stopped, and Jean looked at Javert in surprise. He disguised it quickly. 

“Thank you.”

He didn't miss the roll of Javert's eyes as he moved past him, heading to their table. Jean followed, taking a seat beside Javert. As they ate, Noëlle told them about certain aspects of the hospital - the daily therapy sessions Javert would receive, as well as physio treatment, the hours designated for mealtimes that were intended to dispel isolationism, the weekly event calendars he would see and what to expect from such events. 

Jean listened attentively, and despite the simplicity of the sandwich, it was of excellent flavour and quality. 

“If you're ready we can go back to your room and go through your requirements.”

Jean didn't miss the quick glance Javert shot in his direction, and Jean decided to make it easier for everyone involved. 

“I'll leave you to it then,” he said as he stood. “I hope you rest easier here, Javert. I guess you should text me an appropriate time for me to visit tomorrow, if you want me to visit that is. I don't want to interrupt any of your therapy.”

“Sure,” Javert held his gaze as if he was going to say something else, but the words never formed. 

“Let me know if you need anything else from your apartment. Thanks again, Doctor.”

He left the canteen without a glance back. Why did he feel like he was fleeing whenever he left Javert's company? The fresh air outside was a relief, and he explored the grounds. The gardens were indeed beautiful, the statues pale and somber in the vivid green foliage. A lion reclining in the grass, cherub-like children with a goat, a woman missing her head and arms… That one disturbed him. 

Irritation intruded on this sense of calm. Jean couldn't imagine, even now, how his life might have been if he had received care such as this. To have doctors and therapists actively trying to help, to be provided a room suitable to his needs, food that was not only nourishing but varied too. And these gardens! This space, this peace and beauty! Javert would no doubt keep to himself and to his room, reject all kindness and offers of help, and not feel an ounce of gratitude. 

Jean shook himself, and walked to the exit. He should not envy Javert's situation, the Inspector was disabled for life. Of course he was bitter. His anger was rooted in frustration and fear. The doctors would help him and perhaps when he was discharged, he would be grateful for their guidance. 

He walked all the way back to the hospital they came from, back to his car which was parked there. He was lost in thought for the entire time, but those thoughts did not provide any answers or reassurances, and when he finally arrived home he was exhausted. 

\-----

“Dad? Dad?”

Jean opened his eyes to see Cosette’s concerned face looking down at him. 

“I wasn't sure if I should wake you, but are you feeling okay?”

He grunted as he sat up, and realised that he had fallen asleep on the sofa. He rubbed a hand over his face. 

“Yes, just a little tired, that's all. How was your day?”

“It was fine. Dad… these headaches and tiredness… are you sure you're okay? Do you need to see a doctor?”

Jean smiled, touched by her concern and squeezed her hand. “I am fine, thank you.”

“Alright… I'll help you with dinner though.”

She helped him up and he followed her into the kitchen, where she began looking through the cupboards to decide what they should eat. 

“Noodles? Noodles are quick. I think today is an Extremely-Easy-Meal type of day, huh?”

“Yes, I think I have to agree.”

Jean prepared the vegetables as Cosette found everything else they needed. The chicken was cut, seasoned and fried, and the vegetables added while it browned. Cosette got the noodles cooking once the chicken was done, and when they were ready Jean only had to mix it all together. 

Cosette set the table for them while he served it, and poured water for them both. 

It was very much how things used to be, eating and talking together, making each other laugh. They spent the evening watching TV and Jean couldn't have been happier, but when Cosette went to bed, the experience felt bittersweet. These moments were finite, it would not be the same tomorrow. He became frustrated at his own melancholy and chided himself for not being grateful for what he had. 

He thought of Sainte-Anne's, and if he were in Javert's place how content he might feel. Cosette would visit every day, the doctors would tell him he was worthwhile and deserving of help. 

He ought to pray, but an old, familiar part of him whispered bitterly about what prayer had ever done for him. 

_It has given me peace, it has provided me penance._

_Peace? When has there ever been peace?_

_It has given me Cosette, it led me to Myriel, to Fantine and Hadi._

_That is the kindness of people, not the kindness of Allah. He left you long ago, you know this. You cover up the marks but you know they are still there, made to signify your loss of faith. You think of it even now, of adding another scar._

“Forgive me,” he whispered with a shudder. 

He found the strength to wash his impurities away in the bathroom sink as wuḍū'1 dictated. Once he was deemed pure enough to pray in the eyes of Islam, and himself, he committed to rolling out his prayer mat. Cleansing himself always served to calm him, even if it was futile. 

_No one is listening._ His mind whispered as he knelt. 

“Forgive me,” he repeated, trying to block out his own thoughts. “I am lost. I have always been lost. Even with your guidance I still cannot find my way. If I had more faith… If I had more faith I am sure it would not be so difficult. The fault is mine. I try… I try but…”

_I doubt._

\-----

After a night of desperate prayer, he woke up late. Cosette was just about to leave for school and he felt as if he had already failed the first part of his day. 

“Are you sure you're okay, Dad?” Cosette asked, washing out her breakfast bowl. 

“Yes, I just had trouble sleeping last night, that's all. Probably because I fell asleep in the afternoon.”

His phone vibrated on the counter as he was pouring his tea, and Cosette glanced at it. 

“Javert? Sorry, I thought it would be a work message.”

Jean picked it up, hopefully before Cosette had seen the message preview. 

> _You can come at 1 if you want._

Jean hesitated. He had obligations today. He still hadn't worked up the confidence to reply after Cosette left, but he forced himself to send a message before he went to the shelter. He couldn't leave Javert assuming he would be there. 

> _I'm sorry I have a class at 1. I finish at 2:30 - Jean._

He did not get a response. 

He tried not to think on it, distracting himself with his work. Surely it didn't matter. Javert wouldn't be disappointed, he was probably relieved. He hadn't complained about the coffee, so Jean assumed it was to his taste. He wouldn't need Jean to visit anymore. It was strange to Jean that he didn't also feel relief at the prospect. 

As a result, he was not expecting to have a message from Javert when he checked his phone after his class. 

> _4?_

> _Sure! See you then :)_

He responded without thinking and cringed at the result. No reply came but he wasn't surprised at that. 

Jean stayed at the community centre for the next hour, answering emails and helping out the other members of staff, putting new flyers up on the message board. When he finally made his way to the hospital, it was with less trepidation than before. Javert had requested him to be there, and so he would. 

“I am here to see Javert,” he told the receptionist. 

“First name?”

“Oh. I, um… I don't know. He goes by Javert. He came here yesterday. His room is on the ground floor of this building, just down there,” he pointed down the corridor. 

“I'm sorry, Monsieur, I cannot give you any of his details or permit you access if you do not know his name.”

“I understand,” he said fumbling with his phone. 

> _I'm here but I don't know your name so I can't come in_.

He waited for a response, and stepped away from the reception desk, watching the time on his phone go up by one minute, then two. He wondered if Javert had changed his mind, or if he was asleep. 

“Jean?”

He looked up to see Javert with a member of staff beside him. He wheeled himself up to the desk. He was clean shaven, with his sideburns intact, and his hair had a healthy sheen to it. Seeing him look something like his usual self was strangely heartening. 

“He's here to visit me. Sign him in.”

Jean came to stand beside him. 

“Don't you dare laugh,” Javert said, narrowing his eyes at him. “Visitor for Jean Javert.”

The receptionist passed him the visitors book to sign and a badge.

“Jean?”

“Don't you fucking dare.”

Jean only shook his head and signed, before pinning the visitors badge to his shirt. 

“Is the coffee good here? Do you want one?” Jean asked. 

Javert shrugged. “Sure, it's okay. The other one was better though.”

Jean smiled. “Lead the way then.”

“I'll leave you two to it,” the staff member beside Javert said once they were in the corridor. “I'll see you at the same time tomorrow Javert.”

“He's my physio,” Javert muttered when they were alone. 

“Oh? How was it?”

“Exhausting.”

“I'm sure you've earnt your coffee then.”

When they were in the canteen, Jean poured their coffee. 

“Have you seen the gardens?” He asked as he waited for the machine to stop. 

“No.”

“Would you like to? The weather is very nice.”

“Sure. I guess.”

Jean carried their drinks as they made their way outside and found a bench to sit on. Javert pulled up next to it and put on his breaks. Jean passed him his coffee. 

“Don't ever use my first name, okay?” Javert muttered. “It doesn't mean anything anyway, it was given to me by the state.”

“Oh?”

“My mother lost custody of me as a baby. She did not speak French. They only figured my last name from her.”

“I'm sorry.”

“She was an illegal immigrant,” he said with a pointed look at Jean. “And crazy. She couldn't look after me. That's what I know. No idea about who my father was. But I guess we can say mental health issues run in the family, huh?” He gestured to the building they had just left. 

“It must have been very hard. For both of you.”

“Please,” Javert said with a roll of his eyes. “I just had a therapy session this morning. Besides, I never knew her. I was raised in care and I guess I should be grateful for French citizenship and a common French name.”

“You look much better. You cut your hair?”

Javert's ponytail was gone, but from the front, his hair looked much the same. It perhaps looked softer, and a little fluffier, for not having that weight of hair holding it down. 

“It was exhausting trying to wash it. My arms ache constantly.”

“It looks good though.”

Javert snorted and sipped his drink. Jean took in the plants around him. They did not speak again until their drinks were drained. 

“Do you want to see the rest of it?” Jean asked. 

“I'm out here aren't I?”

“Alright.”

Jean stood and they went around the gardens together. 

“Are you doing okay here?”

“I guess. It's tiring and uncomfortable but at least I get my own room.”

They continued in silence, until they had made a complete circuit. 

“Does your offer still stand?” Javert asked, not looking at him. 

“Offer?”

“Of getting me out of here.”

“Only if you need it. But yes.” 

Jean had hoped Javert would perhaps not need or want to live with him, that he would get the help he needed and realise that he should stay in hospital until he could live independently. But Jean recognised that could be a very long time, and despite how pleasant the hospital was, Javert still found it oppressive. 

Javert merely nodded, and made his way back to the building. Jean wanted to ask why Javert wanted to see him, but was afraid the answer would be something cynical. 

“Do you want me to come tomorrow?” He asked instead. 

Javert looked up at him in what Jean thought was surprise. “Yeah. If you want. You're leaving then?”

“I just thought you were going back so…”

“Yeah. I'm tired. I'll text you about tomorrow.”

“Okay. See you then.”

Jean diverted back to the main entrance, feeling exceptionally awkward. Had Javert wanted him to stay? If he had, what would they have spoken about? Surely it would have been as awkward as ever.

Jean was glad that Javert was keeping his appearance in order again. It showed a will to continue, even if it was only a ruse to get him out quicker. Jean was wary of such strategies now. 

Cosette was already home when he arrived. 

“Sorry I'm late.”

“Don't worry about it. You look better,” she said. “Did you see… Javert?”

“Ah. Yes. He's that old acquaintance of mine in hospital. He looks better too.”

“I'm glad,” she smiled. “I think you've been worrying about him. It's probably what's affecting your sleep.”

“I'm glad too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _wuḍūʾ_ \- cleansing of minor impurities before prayer


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the good news is thanks to the incredible assistance of groucha, and her research into modern French law, my backstory timeline is all sorted!! (It was very complex)  
> I will make it available when this fic ends but I might supply some information in endnotes before that..  
> also big shoutout to madmerchant whose wealth of knowledge on Islam gives me much more confidence moving forward! <3

Javert did text the next day, and the two after that. Always the same thing: “ _4?”_ Jean only stayed for 30 minutes to an hour, leaving was always awkward for reasons he didn't fully understand, but staying would’ve been worse. They got coffee from the canteen, went around the gardens, then Jean went home. The silences they shared weren’t so cloying now that they were somewhat used to each other’s presence, and Jean found the routine of it, and the peace of the gardens, soothing. He thought Javert seemed to as well, to keep inviting him and never objecting to them falling into the same patterns.

Jean found his thoughts wandering to Javert often when he wasn’t in his company, but they became less bitter, less anxious, and more curious than before. Was Jean such a bad name? Why was he so prejudiced against immigrants when he came from such people? And if he did seem to find it as distasteful as he appeared to, why wasn’t he glad to have been given a French name? Where did his mother come from? What language had she spoken?

When they were both able to navigate something that passed as conversation, he felt these small successes of obtaining fragments of information from Javert were only designed as another form of torment. His mind spun through questions he had no hope of attempting to ask. As he got to know Javert marginally better, the more of an enigma he became, until Jean felt there hadn't been much progress at all.

Yet, as it had been in the previous weeks, Javert provided an easy topic to occupy his mind with. It was easier to bear now that Javert was being slightly more civil with him, and appeared to _want_ Jean’s company. It was a peculiar thing to be wanted by someone that hated him so fiercely, but to know that Javert wanted to sit with him, with all the history they shared, was… healing somehow. At any rate, it was more than anyone else needed him. He was reminded of this whenever he thought of Cosette.

Much to his dismay, it had entirely slipped Jean’s mind that Cosette was now on her summer break from school. She said she had gone in for a few days to catch up on the work she had missed but Valjean wondered if he should believe her. He hated himself for having such doubts, she was a good child, and an excellent student. She had asked for Marius to visit, but Jean, to his shame, had used her concern over his health during the previous week as an excuse to avoid making any arrangements to invite Marius to dinner. Avoiding what he knew to be inevitable did not offer much relief, especially when such cowardice increased the bitterness he felt towards himself, and so he lost himself in the conundrum of Javert.

Javert still made him nervous, got him frustrated, sad, and at times lonelier than ever. Sometimes he’d be trapped in wistful melancholy for days, memories of the past too close for him to forget. Yet, Javert treated him how he deserved, he didn’t celebrate Jean for his interference, and disagreed with him often. Jean knew from experience that anything Javert said was his honest opinion, and it was an association Jean didn’t have to worry about ruining with his past, with his flighty nature, or with his lack of social skills. If Javert returned to his cold, vicious hate, that would be no worse than where they began. He had professional help, it wasn’t on Jean’s shoulders to ensure Javert’s mental wellbeing and to have his life in his hands, and yet… sometimes it felt as if he might. That day Javert had gone into the road it had been, and ever since then it was as if Jean still cradled that life in his palm.

And if all efforts failed? If Javert still took his life… Was that anyone’s fault? If living was so painful for him, wasn’t that mercy? All they could do was try. But Jean’s heart ached at the thought, despite everything. All life was precious, and if Javert _did_ end up coming into his care and the worst happened, Jean knew it would absolutely be his fault for allowing it. Did that mean he should withdraw his offer, to remove himself from any responsibility? 

He could not, in good conscience, leave Javert to his own devices when he was discharged. He had seen enough to know Javert didn’t have anyone - at least not anyone he would allow to see him so frail - and Jean already suspected sending home unsupervised would lead to the worst outcome. If he knew this, choosing not to help was still a choice, and he would still have blood on his hands. 

He accepted, for the first time, that Javert living with him was an inevitability of the near future. Given this fact, Jean decided he really ought to make plans and seek ways to get his home adequately prepared. It was a daunting topic, immediately presenting large hurdles: the bathroom being usable for Javert and the fact that it was located upstairs, as well as considering where he would sleep. Jean would also have to tell Cosette, but wasn't quite sure how. 

Every time he was with her, he thought he ought to mention it, yet could never bring himself to. He settled on doing practical investigations first, which he began that afternoon before he visited Javert. He took one problem to focus on: the stairs. He wanted Javert to have freedom of movement, and he would need it to be able access the facilities. 

Cursory looks at stairlift company websites told him that it was possible to rent one for a monthly fee, and for a minimum of three months. They would install it and then remove it when the rent was no longer renewed or the equipment was no longer required. It all appeared very achievable, and Jean was heartened by the discovery of such a simple solution. Javert would no doubt hate such a contraption but it still allowed him independence. He would hate Jean’s charity even more, but Jean could afford it and he was willing to suffer Javert's annoyance. What he would not be able to handle was Javert being trapped upstairs. That would not help his recovery at all. 

After all of the worry that had gnawed at him over the previous days, Jean made his way to Sainte-Anne’s in a good mood. The afternoon was sunny and mild, and Jean looked forward to sitting in the hospital gardens. 

He checked in at reception before heading to Javert's room. He knocked on the door three times - the same pattern as always - and opened it. They appeared to have silently agreed on this method of entry, Jean announcing his arrival with the knocks but not expecting Javert to struggle to the door. It had never caused a problem before, as Javert always expected him at 4 o’clock. It was not the case this time. 

Javert was laying on a yoga mat on the floor, the physiotherapist kneeling by his side. A resistance band was hooked under Javert's knee so he could hold it up and pull it towards himself. Jean caught his glare and immediately retreated back outside. 

“Sorry-”

He had almost closed the door when Javert barked his name. 

“Jean! Goddammit, Jean… Well? Are you still there or not?”

“Yes?” Jean inched the door open slightly more than the sliver it had been. 

“I'll be done… soon. Just get the coffee and wait there, okay?”

He sounded exhausted but also… tense. Strained. Like he might be exhibiting that impossible anxiety again. 

“Alright. See you soon.”

Jean closed the door completely this time, and headed to the canteen. Had something different happened in the hospital to make Javert uncomfortable, and if so, what? Jean’s common sense told him it was only Javert's distaste for Jean walking in on him in such a way, but his gut told him it was something more. Javert wanted him to stay.

All he could do was wait at a table near the door after pouring out the coffee, browsing through the leaflets on the table. _Information for Loved Ones, Reaching Out_ and _Learning to Cope._ He began to worry their drinks would get cold, but as soon as he lifted his head to taste his own, he saw Javert enter the room.

Javert went right by where Jean was sitting, without even looking at him, only muttering ‘ _outside_ ’ as he passed. Jean immediately got up to follow him, carrying their drinks out into the gardens. Javert did not stop at the benches he passed, but continued on until they were out of view of the main path. Jean started to worry why Javert was taking them somewhere away from any witnesses. He wished he had a hand free to clutch his phone in his pocket. If anything happened, he would certainly call for professional help this time.

Javert came to a stop in front of a hedge and did not turn around. After a few seconds of silence, Jean stepped up beside him and offered his coffee. 

“Was the physio more difficult today?”

“Hm.”

They drank and the silence continued. Jean tried to distract himself watching the bees and wondering if the patients at the hospital had any involvement in harvesting the honey from the hives.

“The sister is here,” Javert said, his voice strangely flat.

“A nun?”

“What?” Javert finally turned his head to look up at him. “No. The boy’s sister.”

Jean’s mind frantically groped to catch onto the correct thread of information. “The boy - Gavroche?”

Javert looked at the cup in his hands and nodded.

“She is… a patient?”

Another nod. Jean opted to sit on the grass facing Javert’s side. Javert would probably find this adjustment of their height difference preferable, and Jean felt as if he was adding more tension to the situation by standing.

“She’s here because of me. To be here means you can no longer cope. She can’t cope because of me.”

“You don’t know that.”

Javert shot him a withering look. “And you know even less.”

“Then tell me. Help me understand.”

Predictably, Javert scoffed and rolled his eyes, and Jean expected the conversation to end there. 

“Like I said, the parents had criminal records. Notorious con artists, always cooking up some scam or another. Phonecalls pretending to be your bank or insurance company, you know the kind of thing, taking your details and clearing out your accounts.”

Jean did know. Fantine, already concerned about how long she had to wait for her initial cancer screening costs to be paid back to her, had been taken in by such a scam. She started working as many hours as she could, sneaking Cosette into one of the offices because she couldn’t afford childcare. Fortunately, she had been a cleaner in Jean’s office building, and working late himself one evening, had found this quiet little child asleep on the sofa outside his office. Fantine had been so apologetic, and so afraid, she told him everything and pleaded with him not to make a complaint. Jean had no intention of doing such a thing, and offered to watch Cosette in his office instead.

He knew the effect such crime had on good, honest people, and just the memory of Fantine’s distress made him angry.

“It’s difficult to make arrests for these crimes… But Thénardier, he gets cocky. There’s no notoriety if you’re anonymous. He started running a fake charity, website and everything, taking donations that just went to himself. He had the gall to start hosting events and fundraisers, soaking up the praises and compliments for his ‘noble’ cause.”

Javert looked every bit the Inspector he used to, except his fierce glare and snapped syllables were produced by true injustice. Jean did not feel afraid, he was somewhat fascinated before finding himself saddened that this is how Javert _should_ have been all those years ago. Now Javert’s change of heart seemed to have occurred too late for him to be a truly excellent, and _just,_ policeman.

“But that egotism is what gets them. Earlier this year someone reported suspicious activity regarding the way this ‘charity’ was being run, and made observations when attending one of Thénardier’s extravagant galas.”

“Well that’s good,” Jean said, his palms suddenly becoming clammy as he realised he might have attended that very gala with Cosette, who had expressed her concern and to whom he had confided his own doubts.

Javert narrowed his eyes and looked down on him. “Funny thing is, this caller said the person they attended with knew much about charities, but wouldn’t report them, always hoping for the best in people. Sounds familiar now that I think about it.”

“Anyway,” he continued, giving Jean a rare reprieve from his scrutiny. “A perfectly ordinary enquiry into their finances made him go to ground, but it was only a matter of time before he was found now that everyone knew his face. I was involved in the arrest. His daughters were there. I wasn’t concerned what happened to them. Except for the eldest, because she had been running the website for him.”

“And you took her in to be charged.”

“Yes. Not only had messy police involvement separated the kids before, but now it tore all of them apart and slapped records on them. And now… and now her little brother is dead because the cops still didn’t think to care about them.”

“The decisions of her parents are not any fault of yours.”

“But I cannot blame her for holding me responsible. At every instance I was there, I could have followed up on what had happened to the children, but I didn’t. Gavroche was taken into care after reports of child neglect from a neighbour. They pleaded poverty, the daughters pleaded that they didn’t want to leave - but was that true? Had they been threatened to convince the social workers that it was best for them to stay with their parents? That they were good and loving, just too overwhelmed to care for the youngest son with learning difficulties and a rowdy nature?

Evidently, it was not best for them. The eldest was coerced into criminal acts, her sister too probably but we found no evidence. Then both parents are jailed, the children are scattered to different foster homes. Now that rowdy boy is dead because he wasn’t given the guidance he needed to stay out of trouble, and this girl is in a psychiatric ward. How is it not my fault?”

“It seems to me that there have been failings throughout the system. A number of people could have picked up on these points at the correct times, not just you. The social workers, councillors, other members of the police. You are not _solely_ responsible. And this girl is getting the help she needs now at least.” 

“It’s hardly going to help her to know she’s trapped in the same building as me.”

“Have you told your therapist?”

Javert huffed and folded his arms. “I only realised she was here today.”

“Something tells me you’ve still had an opportunity to mention it.”

Javert shot him a glare. “I needed to think about it.”

“Well, it’s not going to do her _or_ you any good if you don’t.” His voice softened. “I will not say that you are blameless, but isn’t this an opportunity for you to try and make amends? To do something, where before you did nothing?”

“I cannot undo what I did, and I hardly think anything else would help.”

“Just to know someone feels regret for their actions is something. You can see this already can’t you? Do you think we would be here like this if you hadn’t made your regrets clear to me?”

Javert grimaced. The silence returned again.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he muttered. “She should. But I shouldn’t.”

“It… it makes you think of taking your life?”

“It would fix it, wouldn’t it? It feels like the best justice I could give.”

“No.” Jean’s voice was clear and firm. “It is the simplest solution you can think of - the most direct - but it is not the best solution. To die is to give up. To not try. Just because another way hasn't presented itself to you, doesn't mean there isn't one.”

Javert's fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt. “I _have_ tried. I just-” he sighed. “How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Survive. And be so…” He made a sweeping gesture at Jean. “Despite everything?”

“It wasn't easy. I did not feel anyone wanted me to be alive. Even in Algeria.”

“Is that why you left? Why you didn't want to go back?”

Jean chewed his lip. Perhaps a story was a good distraction for Javert, but would it just make him feel more guilty?

“It requires a history lesson,” he said with a humour he didn't feel. “Are you familiar with the Algerian War of Independence?”

“I know it happened, and they won. The French left.”

“Well. My parents were Christian, and my father, thinking the French would provide better for a Christian family, fought on the French side. This labelled him a traitor. _Harki_ is the name for it. 

The French abandoned their Algerian comrades, and the French government would not provide them asylum. They were murdered. My parents. For treason.”

“Oh… I-”

“I don't remember them. I was young. My sister and I were taken in by a kind neighbour. We were raised Muslim. The son of the family wished to marry my sister when she was grown. He knew our shame, and he promised to take us away to the safety of France where we would not have to worry about our parentage.”

Jean sighed, trying to shift the image of the sunlight through the window making extra patterns on the rug. He hadn't thought about this for a long time. 

“I like to think she loved him. But what choice did she have? I suppose it was enough that he was kind. She married young, had his baby, and another. She was pregnant with a third when he decided to travel to France. He said he could earn more money and would set up a life for them there.

I followed him a year later. Four children is a lot to feed - the pregnancy carried twins. I crossed the sea for the first and only time in my life at the age of 18. I made it to the farm where my brother-in-law was working and joined him. I didn't know much French, never wanting to be suspected as the _Harki_ I am-”

“But you were a child! You could not be a traitor?”

“The whole family is labelled as such and to this day, Algeria will not allow a _Harki_ back into the country. You see why I was afraid to return?”

Javert nodded, but appeared to be waiting for more of the story, even though Jean had provided the answer to his question. 

“My brother-in-law died in a machinery related accident. The farmer, not wanting the police to investigate and find all of these illegal immigrants working for him, sent us all away. We scattered, and I was alone in a foreign land. I think you know the rest,” Jean smiled sadly. 

“But… what of your sister?”

Jean closed his eyes. “I don't know. She won't even know that her husband died. Why did you think I tried to escape prison? I _did_ want to return, to tell her, but what help would I have been? And by the time I was released… it was much too late. How could I explain myself after sixteen years? I didn’t even know how to find or contact her...”

“I'm… sorry.” The sentiment sounded foriegn from Javert’s mouth.

Jean shook his head. “It was a long time ago. And you had no part in any of that. To answer your original question, I needed to accept help when it was offered to me, otherwise I might not have survived. I certainly wouldn't be living as a free man today.”

“You have suffered. Even more than I thought.”

Jean tried not to shiver at the memory of walking endlessly through dark fields in the night. Hungry, cold, and breathless, spooked by the calls of strange animals. 

“Everyone suffers at one point or another. But I am still here, and I was given the opportunity to try and repent for my wrongdoing. I cannot make amends for everything. I cannot apologise to my sister. But I can do what I am able to, and you can do the same.”

He looked up to find Javert frowning at him. “I have upset you.”

“My past has made me melancholy, as it usually does, with or without external questions. I am also in danger of getting stuck on the ground - I'm not as young as I used to be,” he smiled to lighten the mood. 

“Ah,” Javert said, not sounding at all convinced by Jean's deflection. 

Jean grunted, pushing himself up but froze when a hand tightly gripped under his forearm. Memories flashed behind eyes of being shoved and dragged across mud, in and out of cells, shouted words he didn't understand. 

“Are you getting up or not?”

“Ah, yes.”

Jean got to his feet with Javert’s aid, and dusted off his trousers to avoid looking at him. He could still feel the ghost of Javert’s grip, and the goosebumps that had broken out across his arm.

“It’s unbecoming for someone so strong to stumble and grunt over getting off the floor,” Javert muttered.

“Even if I still retain some of my strength, it hasn’t stopped my joints from deteriorating.”

“I think…”

Jean looked at him and tilted his head, waiting for him to continue.

“I think I’d rather feel all the aches and pains than not feel anything,” he said quietly.

Jean kept his face turned away. Javert wouldn't want to see his pity. “Yes. I imagine so. You’re ready to go back then?”

“We haven't gone ‘round the grounds yet,” Javert said, his frown deepening. 

Somehow, this reaction, Javert's desire to fall into their regular pattern, made a relieved exhale rush out of Jean’s chest. The smile came easily to his face this time. 

“Come on then.”

\-----

For the first time, Jean truly hadn't wanted to leave Sainte-Anne’s that afternoon. Javert was troubled and melancholy, but peaceable and somehow… _safe_ , as ridiculous as that seemed. Javert was unwilling to risk returning inside and possibly having to encounter the girl, Jean knew that, and yet it almost felt as if Javert did not want to be alone. That he wanted Jean’s company. 

For the first time in many years, his dreams had been of his sister’s tears and the wails of her children. The dusty ground cracked and dry. Red welling up through the fissures. Thunder in the distance - or was it gunshots and explosions? 

When he awoke, he did not want to see the sun. He wanted grey skies and the patter of rain against his window to bring him back to the present. The sky was clear, whether he wanted it to be or not, and he forced himself up to at least look out of the window and see France below him.

Jean did not receive a text that morning. Perhaps Javert assumed he had got the hint by now? Even if he wasn't wanted, Jean was too concerned that Javert might have had to confront the Thénardier girl to skip his visit. 

When there was still no message by 3:30pm, he decided to head to the hospital anyway. He thought about asking the receptionist if Javert was in the middle of a session as he pinned on his visitors badge, but if she hadn’t told him last time, it was unlikely that she knew Javert’s schedule. 

Jean listened outside Javert’s door, just to be certain he wasn’t interrupting, and then he knocked.

“Javert? Should I come in?”

“Sure,” was the muffled response.

Jean slipped inside and closed the door behind him. The curtains were drawn, and Javert was in bed.

“You didn’t text,” Jean said, with uncertainty. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Javert snorted. “I _am_ unwell. That’s why I’m here, right?”

“You know what I mean. Do you have a headache?” 

The only answer he got was a shrug. “I’m tired of talking.”

“Alright. Did you want to go outside?”

Javert glared at him.

“Okay, okay,” Jean held up his hands. “I’ll be back in a second.”

“I didn’t ask you to come at all, let alone come back,” Javert muttered.

Jean left and headed to the canteen, filling two cups of coffee to take back. If Javert didn't want his company, then he would leave. He tapped the door with his foot before opening it with his elbow. 

“Here,” he offered a cup to Javert, which was accepted after Javert pushed himself up. 

Javert brought it into his lap and curled both hands around it, without saying a word. 

“What have I told you about lingering around? Just sit down if you're going to be here.”

Jean settled into a chair, cautiously sipping his own coffee. As always, he had questions circling his brain that he wanted to ask but could not. What talking had exhausted Javert so much? Had he talked about the girl to his therapist? Had he encountered her? But Javert did not want to speak, and had shut himself away in a dark room, so Jean did not want to make him feel any worse.

Jean considered making his departure when he reached the last dregs of his coffee, but there was a knock at the door before he could think of what to say.

“Javert?” said a voice from beyond the door.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Javert hissed, slapping his cup on the side table and frantically combing his fingers through his hair. “Open the curtains. Hurry up.”

Jean jumped to his feet to obey, squinting as the sunshine temporarily blinded him. 

“Javert?” Another voice, feminine this time. “You have another visitor, a Monsieur Chabouillet? If you do not wish to receive him, you do not have to, but I must come in to check on you.”

“No- come in, let him in.” 

Javert fussed over neatly covering his lap with the bedsheet and sitting up straight against the headboard. The door opened and Jean recognised Chabouillet as he stepped into the room. His eyes were on Javert, his gaze filled with concern, before he realised Javert was not the sole occupant. Surprise flickered over his features briefly before his eyes narrowed at Jean.

“Javert?” The woman asked again as she closed the door and stepped around Chabouillet, and Jean saw that it was Noëlle.

“You can leave us. I am fine.”

“You know you can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me sitting here for a moment.”

She sat in the chair Jean had vacated, and Jean could see Javert’s jaw tense. The room felt incredibly claustrophobic with so many people, but Chabouillet was still standing in front of the door and Jean couldn’t summon the strength to brush past him.

“Don’t mind me,” Noëlle told Chabouillet as the silence persisted.

His eyes moved back to Jean to let him know exactly who was making the situation uncomfortable, but he cleared his throat and directed his attention to Javert.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Javert? You should have told me you were being transferred. It took some digging to find out where you’d gone - confidentiality and all that.”

Javert remained stony faced, staring at his lap.

“If you are not next of kin, there was no requirement for you to be informed.” Noëlle chose to respond. “Javert needs time to recover.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Chabouillet said quickly, visibly awkward. Uncertainty sat on him strangely, as if he was rarely unsure of himself. “I was merely worried.”

“My apologies,” Javert said, his voice detached and professional. “It was not my intention. Surely my wellbeing should no longer be a concern of the department.”

“ _Javert_. You are still one of us, I have said we will have a discussion when you are well enough about the particulars. This… This is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Javert snorted, turning his head away. 

“You ought to know that I wouldn't think less of you. You should have told me. Told _someone_.” He sighed. “I am sorry you have suffered so, and thought you needed to do so alone. I hope… I hope you will realise in the future it doesn't have to be that way.”

Chabouillet cleared his throat. “Well. It's good to know that you are here. You can call me, if you want to. For anything. I would like to see you once a week though, if you don't mind.”

“Of course.”

The sadness that pinched Chabouillet's brow showed that he understood Javert's response to be professional. That he would agree because it was expected of him, not because it was something he wanted. 

“Next week then,” Chabouillet said as he turned to leave. 

“I'm sorry,” Jean said as the door closed. “I should go too. I will not come unless you text me. I was just… worried.”

Javert gave no indication that he had heard. 

“But he is right. You should not be ashamed of being here. What you are doing now requires great strength. The things you should be ashamed of are the actions of your past, and work to make amends.”

He looked to Noëlle, concerned that he had overstepped, but she only gave him a nod. 

“Okay. I'll see you when you want to see me then. I hope you feel stronger tomorrow.”

Jean quietly left the room, closing the door behind him gently. He wandered the gardens, afraid of bumping into Chabouillet if he left too quickly. He wouldn't be able to answer any of the questions he asked, and the professional authority of him made Jean uncomfortable. 

Javert possessed an aggressive passion that had been terrifying, but the cool, calculating manner of his boss felt more dangerous. He must be a good man though, to care for Javert like that, Jean reasoned. Although surely he condoned all of Javert's previous behaviours and method of working, and this made Jean uncomfortable. 

Maybe Javert was right in his insistence that Chabouillet should not be concerned over him. If his previous work methods were what was desired of him and he could not return to such callous acts, would Chabouillet be disappointed? Was his place still in the police, and if not, what would he do? It seemed Javert's whole life, his whole identity had centred around his career and without it, who was he?

Sitting alone in the hospital gardens, Jean felt he understood Javert's predicament further still. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> but Bex! I hear you cry. Everyone knows Valjean was in prison for 19 years, not 16!  
> this number comes from groucha's extensive research into modern sentencing and French law. tbh I wasn't expecting to get it so close to his canon sentence!  
> a brief summary:  
> 7 years for theft with two aggravating conditions - destruction of property and concealing his face (max sentence due to inability to pay any fine)  
> +3 years for a 'simple' escape attempt (no aggravation/violence)  
> +6 years for second 'simple' escape attempt (considered recidivism, so harsher additional sentence)
> 
> =16 years!  
> This time would be served in a French prison and upon his release he would still be an illegal immigrant and sent to a deportation camp (which he successfully escapes)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long x.x  
> lockdown has apparently been dreadful for my ability to write  
> I hope all of you are well <3

Jean didn’t get a text from Javert the next day. He didn’t expect to, but he still couldn’t help checking his phone every five minutes in case he had missed a message. The time he would've spent at the hospital was instead spent at home, afraid and delighted at once by Cosette’s company - wanting to indulge in it if he was able, but afraid of what she might ask. 

The day after that, there was still no message from Javert, and Jean suspected more days without contact would follow. Jean knew that he would no longer have excuses to avoid meeting Marius and told himself that if he suffered this event, he would then tell Cosette about the changes that needed to be made to their home. With the knowledge of Javert becoming a resident in their home, hopefully further visits from Marius would be deterred. 

“Perhaps you should ask Marius to join us tomorrow,” Jean suggested over dinner, getting some fraction of satisfaction of dictating the time and place, not allowing the boy much time to plan anything before his arrival. 

Cosette’s face brightened instantly, like the sun she had always been to him. 

“Oh yes! Thank you, Dad! I'll let him know as soon as we're finished.”

Her smile didn't fade and she was far more talkative. Was that all it had taken? Those few words, that one allowance, to get her love again? It felt easy sitting with her smiling and laughing in that moment, but Jean wouldn't be blinded by it. Allowing Marius into their home, into his life, was a big allowance that may eventually even lead to Cosette being taken from him entirely. 

“Are you not busy tomorrow then? Not visiting Javert?”

“No, not for a little while.”

“I hope nothing has happened to him?” She asked, her eyes concerned. Always so thoughtful and empathetic, she was the most wonderful child and the best thing to ever happen to him. He couldn’t imagine any boy that might deserve her.

“Just needs some space, some time to figure things out for himself.”

“What's wrong with him, Dad? He's been in hospital a long time if that's who you've been seeing for all these weeks.”

“Ah.” Jean supposed there was no harm in telling her the rough overview of the situation now. “He sustained a bad spinal injury-”

“Oh no!”

“I'm afraid he's been left with paraplegia. It's taking him quite some time to adjust.”

“I can imagine. Poor man, what a terrible thing! I'm glad he has you looking out for him though.”

“Hm. He's very independent by nature, so he's finding it incredibly difficult but also too proud to admit it. He will not ask for help, it has to be forced upon him and I fear he won't get better until that changes…”

“I'm sure he will come to you eventually,” Cosette reassured, squeezing his hand. “It's just like you said: he needs some time to make his own realisations. And when he does, I can think of no one better to ask assistance from than you.”

“There are other people he could ask, more qualified-”

“But who else has been at his bedside every day out of the kindness of their heart? I know you would not be keeping him company if he had supportive friends and family already.”

“Ah, perhaps you've got me there,” Valjean chuckled. “We’ll see.”

The conversation relaxed again, and Cosette began telling him of her plans for the summer. She wanted to work as she had done the previous year to earn her own money. Jean had tried to dissuade her then, he still had all the money they could need, but Cosette had wanted her own money, her own independence, and her own experience of the world. He had relented in the end. Her friends were all doing the same, and he didn't want her to be at a disadvantage when she applied for jobs at the end of her education. 

She would still help him at the shelter when she wasn't at work, and would visit Marius who was unable to work at this time and would surely be lonely. Jean thought, with some bitterness, that _he_ would also be lonely, but that didn't appear to cross her mind. 

He told her it was a good plan and he couldn't remain bitter with the way she smiled at him. 

They had both been so melancholy when they first met, struggling through their own sorrows and hardships. Fantine had left him with a somber and scared little girl much too soon, but then any amount of time they had together would have still felt too short, and Cosette was left with an equally somber yet anxious wreck of a new father. 

The first time she smiled at him after Fantine’s passing, it was the greatest sense of achievement and the greatest joy he had ever felt. It was the first time he truly felt that he was a father, and might even be able to do a good job of it. There had been many more smiles, and laughter too, from both of them in the years that followed. He had never experienced such joy and peace as he had done in his life with Cosette, but he never forgot how they started - the bleak sorrow of their pasts that they had left behind, and so he was grateful for each and every smile, every giggle, and every happy tear that was shed. 

He would remain grateful for any time that he had with Cosette, and tried not to be too melancholy when she raced off to call Marius as he washed the dishes. 

\-----

Jean went through the entirety of the next day slowly and with great reluctance, dreading facing Marius that evening. Part of him selfishly wished to visit Javert again because nothing occupied his mind to the same extent, and stopped his self pity, as much as Javert's company. But he still hadn’t received any messages, so Sainte-Anne's wasn't an option. 

He assisted at the shelter, taught his class, tended to the community flowerbeds and his own garden, yet still, time seemed to crawl with each task. His focus drifted, his movements slowed, and he became impatient. 

Cosette wanted to prepare the dinner, and although Jean disliked the notion of Marius perhaps getting used to the idea of Cosette cooking for him, it would mean they were not alone while Jean was in the kitchen. He wondered if he made Marius uncomfortable enough, whether that would scare him away or just chase them both into privacy. 

When he finally braved going home, he was mildly horrified to already smell cooking. What he saw in the kitchen made his heart plumett even further. 

Cosette was cooking _tagine_. The dish, with its unique conical lid, sat on the stove to slow cook until Marius arrived. That dish had been Hadi’s, and the recipe too. Jean had not known how to cook any Algerian dishes himself - his sister had always done so with their hostess. The first time he had eaten at Hadi Fauchelevent's table, he had cried. Those tastes and scents, of rich meat and sweet fruit, he had thought lost forever once again filled his senses, reminding him of the crowded table of home. It was what made him finally cave to Hadi’s needling at him to pray and go to mosque and celebrate holy days with him. 

Now this dish, so special to his heart and his heritage, was being prepared for _Marius._

“Hi, Dad! I know we were planning tagine later in the week, but we had all of the supplies and I thought it'd be good to have something I could prepare early.”

“I see.”

“And I bet Marius has never tasted anything as amazing as ammῑ’s tagine!”

Jean stared at the tagine. 

“Dad? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Maybe I just need a shower to clear my head.”

“Yeah, good idea. You even have time for your prayer before Marius arrives.”

He turned away from her smile and headed upstairs. 

He washed thoroughly, trying to chase away his annoyance and hurt with the mundane and keeping focus on following the steps of wuḍūʾ. It didn't work, so he turned the water cold so all he could think about was showering as quickly as possible. 

He stepped out, body shivering and tense, to dry off. He did so as quickly and thoroughly as he had washed, redressed and headed to the bedroom. He rolled out his prayer mat, straightened with his hand over his stomach, and murmured al-Fātiḥah to begin his prayer. 

Marius was injured, and had suffered a terrible experience. Jean ought to extend his hospitality, as he should to anyone. Part of him thought back to the large house in the very expensive neighbourhood he had dropped Cosette off at for her visits, and thought many more people, who were actually in need, should have his hospitality over Marius. But no, he didn't know the boy or his circumstances. Jean should reserve judgement, extend his welcome, and be courteous whether Marius was to his taste or not. 

Praying had settled his mood and made his resolve to do good remain at the forefront of his mind. Besides, regardless of Marius, he would enjoy the tagine. 

Jean didn’t get the chance to speak to Cosette with more gentleness, and ask about her day, as there was a knock at the door as soon as he entered the kitchen. Cosette immediately ran out of the room in her excitement to greet Marius. He heard the joy of her greeting as she opened the door, and it froze him where he stood. When had she last expressed such joy seeing his tired old face?

“Dad! Marius is here! Oh, here, your shoes can just go there-”

Happiness radiated from her as she came back into the kitchen, flushed with nerves but that did not diminish the helpless, dazzling smile that dimpled her cheeks. Jean’s heart ached.

“Oh, Dad? Are you feeling worse?”

“Ah, no. Don’t worry. I am fine.”

Marius himself stepped into the doorway behind Cosette. A meek looking boy, with a mop of unruly dark hair that made his skin look even pastier, who appeared as if he had never known what to do with his childhood growth spurt and was left perpetually awkward in his body. He had been sensible enough to wear a smart shirt and looked painfully nervous. Jean should feel pity, but he couldn’t help but feel glad at his discomfort. 

“I do not want to impose. Not if you are unwell, Monsieur,” Marius managed as they came into the room. His arm was still trapped in a cast.

“Truly, I am fine.”

“Well it, um, sure smells delicious! And I should thank you, Monsieur. Not- Not only for your invitation, but for helping so many of my friends to hospital.”

Jean nodded. “I really didn’t do that much. Your friends may have exaggerated.”

“Oh, _Dad_ ,” Cosette said, rolling her eyes. “And _you_ always sell yourself short. Please sit down Marius, and don’t listen to him. Would you like something to drink?”

Jean turned away to turn off the stove as Cosette waited on Marius. He donned his oven gloves to remove the tagine pot from the diffuser and placed it in the center of the dining table. He lifted the lid, allowing the steam and rich scents to flow out into the room.

“Wow. What is it?” Marius asked, leaning forward.

“Lamb tagine,” Cosette replied sweetly.

“I don't think I’ve seen anything like it. It looks amazing. You made this?” 

Jean turned back to the kitchen counter with a roll of his eyes to prepare the couscous. 

“Remember to wash your hands before we start eating,” he said, knowing Marius had just settled into his chair.

“Ah, of course. Why don’t I give you a little tour, Marius? You can wash up in the bathroom and when we’re back everything will be ready.”

Jean sighed to the couscous and started to lay out the remaining bread from the cupboard on the table. Knowing that Marius came from a privileged home, he couldn’t help but spend the previous evening making the house spotless. He wouldn’t want him to judge Cosette for how they lived, he never wanted his own shadow to cast Cosette in a poor light in any situation. He hadn’t expected Cosette to give him a _tour_ though.

Jean knew she had the sense not to go into his own room at least. The smallest room in the house, which had probably been used as an office or storeroom by the previous owners. It could fit a single bed, small desk, chest of drawers and a wardrobe. That was all he needed. Cosette had insisted for many years that he should take the spare room, but had long since relented to Jean’s insistence he slept better in small spaces. This wasn’t entirely untrue. 

The room that was intended as a second bedroom he made into a small library and study or craft space for Cosette. They often spent quiet afternoons together there, and Jean considered it a much better use of the room. Cosette, of course, had the master bedroom. He hoped they wouldn't go in there either. 

They came back downstairs as Jean tipped the couscous into a bowl. He washed his hands before he joined them at the table. There was nothing else to delay it. 

“Bismillāh1. Thank you ammῑ, for your love and kindness, and delicious food!” Cosette said, much to Marius’ bewilderment.

“Bismillāh,” Jean echoed.

“This was his recipe,” she explained as she began serving both herself and Marius. “My Uncle’s, that is.”

“His name is Ami?”

“No,” Cosette smiled. “Ammῑ is arabic for ‘uncle’. His name was Hadi Fauchelevent and we lived with him for awhile when I was young.”

“I… I did not know you were, um, that you had non-French relatives.”

“We were not related by blood, but he was very dear to us. He taught me many things about his faith, and the importance of kindness. He was also a fabulous cook.”

“He sounds like a wise man who taught you well.”

Jean was singularly focused on serving his own food, keeping himself from snapping an interruption in this excruciating conversation.

“Where is he from?”

“Algeria. Just like Dad. That’s how they became friends, right Dad?”

_The reason he hated me in the beginning_ , Jean thought. 

He recalled Hadi’s frequent arguments and hateful glares when Jean held meetings regarding the plans and progress of construction projects. Jean accepted them, as Hadi had been justified in those feelings. He had worked hard and honestly to arrive in France and support his family. Hadi knew a fellow immigrant when he saw one and was offended by Jean’s rejection of his heritage and disguising himself under a false name.

Jean knew that Hadi had figured him out, but Hadi needed the work. Not many employers hired people of his age, especially not on a construction site, but Jean had granted him the role of Foreman, so he kept his mouth shut to keep his career but seethed with resentment. Silently, Jean agreed with him that he had no right to rise to such a high position, and earn so much money, through lying. Hadi was honest and a legal citizen, he had the right to be angry.

Things changed after he insisted Jean had saved his life, and helped him to continue working. Jean never felt that he had deserved Hadi’s friendship and guidance, but he would be forever grateful for it.

“Dad?”

“Yes, he was very dear. A wonderful friend to us when we were in need.”

“But… you said… you didn’t have Algerian relatives, yet your father is… ?” Marius tried to murmur discreetly to Cosette.

“Ah, well, Dad and I aren’t blood-related either. But that doesn’t matter to me. Family is what we make it, and who is there for us when we need them.”

It had never mattered to Jean either, until this moment, when it somehow made him feel less of a father. 

“Yeah. You’re right. I just wish I’d realised that sooner for my own family,” he said with some sadness and Cosette squeezed his arm in reassurance.

“Please eat,” Jean interrupted. “While it’s still hot.”

That was effective at putting the conversation on hold, with Jean only having to suffer Marius’ praise of the food. Jean tried to focus on his own, and be thankful. To once again remember Hadi, who he still kept in his heart, and to be grateful for the freedom he had attained, and the wonderful girl he had been allowed to raise. 

“Alḥamdulillāhi,” Cosette declared with a smile once she was finished, and Jean echoed her. 

Maruis cast a worried glance in her direction, likely if he should attempt it too. Thankfully, Cosette shook her head before he could try. 

“It's a Muslim thing.”

“You're-”

“No, I'm not Muslim, but it feels like tradition, and I don't want Dad to forget. Although ammῑ sure wanted me to be, didn't he, Dad?” She said with a fond chuckle. “He loved me very much, and got me to partake in all the fun stuff for holy days. But Dad was very responsible. He wanted me to make up my own mind when I was old enough to understand. My mum was Catholic, you see. He made sure to read me the Bible and explain its teachings on her behalf.”

“Ah, your father is a very good man…”

Jean cleared his throat. “I will do the dishes.”

“He can't take compliments,” Cosette faux-whispered to Marius. 

“Cosette tells me you want to be a lawyer,” Jean said as he filled the sink to change the subject, and Cosette gathered the plates and cutlery. 

“Yes. I do.”

“And why is that?”

“To help people. To make sure they get a fair trial.”

“You would defend a criminal?”

“Y-yes. Because that's what is right. What is moral. Everyone should make their case before a jury. Fairly.”

“Yes… Fairness is the ideal.” _But not often the reality._ Marius did seem to be quite the idealist. 

“Marius also wants to translate legal documents into English, for those who can't read French, to make sure they fully understand.”

“Oh, is that so?” Jean asked, seamlessly switching to English himself. 

“Ah- y-yes. Yes I do,” Marius responded clumsily in turn. 

“Dad! Don't be mean and catch him off guard!” Cosette chided playfully. 

“Of course. Forgive me, I suppose that was a bit much.” _Too much to expect for you to demonstrate what Cosette believes you to be capable of._

He turned to face Marius after setting everything to soak in the sink. 

“But I must ask why you were at the protest.”

“For justice! To tell the government and the people of Paris that all of our people should be treated fairly! People should be paid decent wages. ‘Unskilled’ work is vital and necessary to our society-”

“And the _banlieues_? Racial inequality? Forgive me, but your protest lost support and drive when more messages muddied it.”

“But they are all problems that need addressing!”

“But to bundle them all together makes an insurmountable issue for most people, that has no hope of a solution. They did not believe in your success. You were asking for too much, that some were not sure what you were asking _for._ ”

Marius sat sullenly, looking like he wished to argue but didn't want to be inappropriate. 

“Of course I agree that all of these things are issues that need addressing, only they need to be confronted separately. I only bring it up because… do you intend to continue such reckless demonstrations? There were clearly protestors that attended ready for a fight, I hope that you were not one of them.”

“You cannot blame them for thinking the police would retaliate - that's what happened!”

“I do not want Cosette involved in such activities. I do not want you to endanger her, and I certainly don't want her on the wrong side of the law. It would be helpful to your future career too if you didn't have a criminal record.”

“Dad. I don't want any arguments. I know youre worried, but please just trust me that I wouldn't involve myself in anything stupid.”

“There is nothing wrong with protesting,” Jean said forlornly. “But it's dangerous if people don't want to listen.”

“I know. I know,” Cosette stood by him and squeezed his arm. “Dad has bad experiences with the police,” she explained to Marius. “And injustice. He doesn't have faith in the system if we were to get arrested.”

“Oh. I see.”

“He was wrongly imprisoned when my mother was sick. There was some confusion about his legal status even though they were married.”

That wasn't true. He was very rightly imprisoned for fraud, facing a life sentence if it hadn't been for Fantine using the last of her strength to fight it - going to the press, the politicians, until a media storm swept up around the case that it couldn't be ignored. She had passed away before the President pardoned him. That was perhaps the greatest injustice of all. 

“I understand your concern. I'm very sorry for your experience. I certainly never intend to pressure Cosette into any political statements. Please, don't worry.”

Jean nodded, resting his hand on top of Cosette’s head. “Forgive me for making you both uncomfortable. It has been on my mind.”

He relaxed when Cosette hugged him. 

“You know I always want you to speak your mind. You have a terrible tendency to bottle everything up. It's a hard time and we _should_ talk about it.”

“Yes,” Marius said softly. “There was so much my family didn't talk about until it was nearly too late. I’m glad you can be so frank with us.”

Somehow, they had both come out of this discussion thinking well of him. He had hoped to scare Marius away, but had somehow bonded them all together. Now, he felt like a fraud once more. They thought him honest and open, yet there was still so much he hadn't told Cosette. If only it was as simple as Marius seemed to think. 

“Well. These dishes aren’t going to wash themselves,” Jean said with a strained smile as he turned back to the sink.

“Marius! You should see the garden! Dad works wonders with plants, I think the garden has always been my favourite place.”

Jean washed up in silence. Marius could’ve been worse. At least he _wanted_ to work hard and try and do the right thing. He would still offer to drive Marius home as soon as he had finished to get him out of the house though - he didn’t want them both alone in her room all night.

He was drying the plates when he heard them come back inside.

“Cosette,” he called. She poked her head around the door. “How about I take Marius back? If he needs a lift.”

“Marius? Dad can give you a lift home now if you want.”

“Ah, okay, thanks,” Marius said in obvious disappointment with the body language to match.

“Just let me finish up here and then we can go.”

“Okay,” Cosette said with all the cheer Marius did not possess. 

Of course she would want to accompany them, but at least her presence would make the journey far less awkward. They were both already in the hall with their shoes on, ready to go, when Jean left the kitchen. 

They both climbed into the back of Jean’s trusty old yellow Renault 5, and Jean started the engine. The only time he had been embarrassed for keeping this shabby old car was when it came to dropping Cosette off at Marius’ house. She had never seemed to feel the same - never asked him to pull up down the street out of sight - and that was a relief. 

He hoped she wasn't embarrassed by it, not only because it would mean she was embarrassed by _him_ , but he didn't want her fond memories pushed away with cynicism. She had grown up with this car, it had taken them everywhere she had wanted to go, just the two of them. She affectionately named it _La Citrouille Dorée_ 2 (inspired by her fairytales, changing from _Le Carrosse D'or_ , to _Le Carrosse Citrouille_ , before settling on a mixture of the two), like it was part of the family. 

She spoke quietly to Marius in the back, and Jean turned on the radio and tried not to listen.

He left the engine running when he pulled up, hoping to hurry Marius out. Marius leaned over to Cosette after he unbuckled the seatbelt, as if to kiss her, but he caught Jean’s glare in the rearview mirror, and quickly turned to open the door, audibly cracking his head on the ceiling in the process. He stumbled out onto the pavement with hurried pledges to Cosette that they would talk later, then with a final thanks to Jean and an awkward wave, and went up to his front door.

Cosette also left the car, and to Jean’s surprise, didn’t run up to Marius to hug him farewell, but got in the front seat.

“Thanks, Dad,” she smiled with such gratitude and love, Jean found himself choked.

He smiled back, and turned the car around towards home.

\-----

Cosette helped him at the shelter the following afternoon. She was as gentle, vibrant and kind as always. Whenever she accompanied him, Jean received many compliments on having such a lovely daughter. 

_You must be proud_ , they would say.

He was proud, more than he could articulate, even though he knew her successes had nothing to do with him. 

She would check her phone and tap away in quiet moments, talking to Marius, but at least she wasn’t trying to hide it anymore. Jean was thankful for that.

Knowing he had helped others always calmed his heart and soothed his mind. But having Cosette by his side all day in friendly support as he provided for those in need, made him feel truly whole. After such a day, it seemed easy to broach the conversation once they arrived back into the comfort of their home.

“Cosette. There is something I wanted to discuss with you,” Jean said as he poured the tea.

“Oh?”

“Javert… he lives alone. It will be very difficult for him to adjust and manage by himself once he’s out of hospital. I had thought to…”

“Let him stay with us?”

“Yes…”

“Of course! Why would I refuse? He is in need of help, and it's the first time I've known you to have a friend. Of course he can stay.”

“Ah- well- I wouldn't say we are friends, but he does need help. And you must understand, I doubt he will be a civil guest. It might be difficult to have him here. He is undergoing therapy but-”

“It's okay, Dad. Like you said, he needs help. Of course he's in pain.”

“You won't have to interact with him. I imagine he’ll prefer to be left alone as much as possible. But if you are ever uncomfortable you should tell me, and I'll make other arrangements.”

“You worry too much, inventing problems before they've happened. I'm certain he wouldn't be so ungrateful to cause whatever disaster you might imagine.”

_You don't know Javert_ ,Jean thought. He would expect Javert to be capable of civility before, if he was required to, but in such a fragile state? With his mental health in repair? He was unpredictable. 

“I will need to arrange changes to the house, starting as soon as possible so that we can have everything in order. A stairlift, for a start.”

“And the library will need to be a bedroom? I will help! Does he need a special kind of bed?”

“I don't know. I'll look into that.”

“And the bathroom-”

“One step at a time, Cosette,” he couldn't help but laugh. “Perhaps we should start a list, and work through what needs to be done, room by room.”

“Yes!” She said, running out of the room. 

“Where are you going?”

“To get a notepad!”

Jean smiled to himself, setting their mugs on the table, ready to work with his daughter. Tackling his problem together. He really was so very proud of her.

\-----

By the end of the following week, the stairlift was installed. It was the most important modification that needed to be made to the house, so Jean decided that he would rather pay up early and have it in full working order long before it was needed. If the model needed switching to something more appropriate, or it conked out in two days, it was far more preferable for him to have time to troubleshoot those issues. 

Naturally, because he had been so organised, there were no immediate problems. Two men from the company fitted it and mounted the wall handles Jean had also ordered for the bathroom. Such workers knew the most likely locations they would be needed in, and the most useful angles to position them at, but they reassured Jean if any adjustments were required for the user that it would only be a matter of drilling some more holes.

Cosette had resumed work that morning, at the independent craft store she had worked at in previous years. They adored her, as everyone did, and she involved herself in various demonstrations and activity days. As a result, Jean dealt with the noise of the work and bustle of busy workers alone. He didn't mind, it reminded him a little of overseeing his workers all those years ago. There were more similarities when he considered the project as a whole: orchestrating and overseeing the development of a home for someone in need. It was only on a much smaller scale and far more specific. 

When Cosette arrived home that evening, she immediately honed in on the stairlift in excitement. 

“It looks good!”

“Do you want to try it out?”

“What?” She laughed. “Shouldn't we leave it for Javert?”

“I'd like your opinion on how comfortable it is, and if it feels safe.”

“Alright, you've convinced me,” she said, turning to consider it. “Hm. He’ll need to carry his wheelchair up though won't he? That might be awkward.”

“Ah. A good point. Perhaps I should get a simple one for upstairs use. I'll think about it.”

The seat and footplate folded up to make it more compact when not in use. Cosette put them both down to sit, and lowered both armrests once she was in position. She located and buckled the belt, and watching her get into the chair so quickly and fluidly, Jean was mindful that it would be much more complicated for Javert. 

“This button?” She asked as she pressed the appropriate button on the armrest, and a loud beep sounded. “Oh-”

The chair began its very slow and unceremonious ascent, whirring all the way. Cosette laughed. 

“Well, I'm sure he'll find the pace frustrating, but it seems fine,” she said, only a third of the way up. “Definitely better than making him risk pulling himself all the way up. I'm sure he'll appreciate that.”

When she finally reached the top, Cosette declared the experience was fine, and the lift itself was good. 

“There's definitely enough room to keep a wheelchair on the landing here,” she said when Jean came up to join her, indicating the space beside where the stairlift had come to rest. 

“Yes, out of the way too.”

“I'd say it's a success then,” Cosette smiled, as she went to investigate the bathroom. 

“It seems so.”

“Bathroom next then, and then the bedroom.”

“Indeed, but I need more research on what Javert currently has in place.”

“I can still look for a chest of drawers or something for him to keep his things. He shouldn't live out of boxes.”

“You're right. That's a good idea.” 

Jean got his phone out of his pocket to check the time, and to his surprise had a message waiting. He had been so busy all day, he hadn't heard it or thought to look. It was Javert. 12:17pm. 

> _Hey. You can come at 4 if you want. Can you bring the star atlas from my place?_

It had just gone 6pm. Jean mentally kicked himself for missing the message. 

“What's up, Dad?”

“Nothing, I should probably start the dinner.”

Jean went back downstairs to the kitchen and typed out his response. 

> _Sorry I didn't hear my phone. I can come tomorrow if you want? With the atlas. I hope you've been well._
> 
> _-Jean_

He didn't expect a reply right away, he knew Javert wasn't above petulance. Jean focused on the dinner, and tried to forget about it, hoping he hadn't blown the fragile connection he'd been able to make. 

\-----

When there was still no response the next morning, Jean began to worry. He saw Cosette off to work and headed straight to the shelter, making sure to put his phone on maximum volume and keep it in his top pocket.

It was impossible to keep his mind off of worrying when he had to keep an ear out for his phone. Every time he successfully distracted himself, moments later he would worry that he had missed a message. 

When his phone did finally ring at precisely noon, Jean thought his mind was playing tricks on him. He pulled it from his pocket to find there definitely _was_ a message and the name displayed on the screen was _Javert._ Jean mistyped his passcode twice in his haste to read the message. 

> _Yeah today at 4 is fine._

Jean sighed in relief and immediately typed out his reply. 

> _Sure! See you then._

At least now Jean could go to teach his class with a clearer head, and devote his full attention to the students. 

He greeted them warmly as they arrived, and they greeted him with happy surprise in turn (had he really been so noticeably dejected lately?). He was pleased by the grateful smiles in response to his freshly made worksheets. 

These classes were largely focused on written French, as all of the students at least managed basic spoken French. In the beginning, Jean always focused on getting everyone comfortable with basic words and phrases to get by using spoken French. He tried to cater it to be useful for the working environments his students were involved in to make life easier for them until they mastered the language. That got all of his students on something like a similar level, then they moved onto reading and writing.

He always helped them understand any emails or letters they received from their employers or officials, and assisted with any responses they might need to write. He never wrote for them though. It had to be genuine, and it helped them learn. 

He dipped into English to help with explanations at times, which many of the students knew better than French. He made attempts at their native languages too if they struggled, to put them at ease and let them laugh at his poor pronunciation. He used Arabic rarely, just a word or two to help anyone who had it as their native language. After so many years as an innocent man, he was still nervous of being known. 

Jean took his time with the class and answered all questions thoroughly. It was no surprise that he overran on time, but he still assisted a couple of students who had more personal questions to ask once the others had left. 

Even then, he still had plenty of time to stop by Javert's apartment, and he was in high spirits as he got into his car. The drive was clear and uneventful, and Jean tapped the steering wheel along to the radio, the drone of _Citrouille_ around him. 

As he parked outside the building, he wondered how long it would be before Javert would be able to return. Should he officially move out so he wasn't wasting rent money on an empty place? Jean imagined this would be a touchy subject to broach. 

He was glad to note, upon entering Javert's apartment, that it had been recently cleaned - just as he had arranged. The surfaces had been dusted and the rooms aired. Jean couldn't help but wander through the rooms, telling himself he was just checking what had been cleaned and that everything was still in its place. He wondered if he should tell Javert he had paid for a cleaner, in case he had any valuables he was worried about leaving for a stranger to find, but Jean knew it would only make him refuse the help. 

His leisurely route brought him to the last room - the bedroom. How strange it was to move through Javert's home so casually. He felt like a ghost observing some other realm that he didn't belong to. The apartment itself had the sensation of being a museum exhibit - a perfectly maintained recreation of a space that was left devoid of life and personality. An empty husk that Jean’s wandering soul could not possess. 

He considered the perfectly made bed, the sheets pulled tight to be entirely free of creases. It had been that way the first time he visited - it was the work of Javert, not the cleaner. The bedding was entirely navy, and Jean wondered if the replacement sets were all exactly the same. He couldn't imagine Javert sleeping in it, being entirely at peace with the covers all rumpled around him. 

Would he ever be able to make his bed so neatly again? 

Jean wasn't sure what gave him the urge to pick up the pillow to fluff it. He just wanted some semblance of _life,_ and maybe part of him was always disturbed and discomforted by excessive order. 

The cover fell back from where it had rested over the pillow, revealing the underside of the duvet cover was printed with a scattering of white stars. Surely the design ought to be outside facing? Jean reasoned perhaps Javert wanted it to be plain, but then why would he have purchased a duvet cover with a design? 

Jean was there for the star atlas, Javert _liked_ stars, quite a lot, it appeared. Jean found this intriguing and encouraging. He puffed up the pillow that would likely be unused for months, and tucked the bed back up as neatly as he could. 

He turned to the small bookshelf to collect what he came for, and realised the large hardback book with the colourful cover he had noticed before was called the _Sky Atlas_. He wondered if it was what Javert meant, given the beautiful illustrated cover seemed to represent characters from constellations, but he found the idea that Javert wouldn't say _exactly_ what he meant didn't seem right. 

He picked it up anyway and perused the bookshelf for something that was actually called a _Star Atlas_. There was nothing titled as such. As he turned away from the shelves, he caught sight of a book by the bedside. 

It wasn't much of a book at all, on closer inspection, but it _was_ titled as a _Star Atlas._ It was more like a Filofax, Jean thought, with metal ring clip binding to easily remove the pages. The pages were either lists or fold-out charts. The majority of them were charts. 

To Jean, they looked incredibly dull. Lots of little black marks on white pages, that he couldn't begin to understand where in the sky it was meant to be or what he was looking at. He much preferred the full colour, historically focused _Sky Atlas,_ with its promise on the back cover of beliefs and legends that past cultures found in the stars. 

He left the apartment with both. 

The day was overcast, but Jean found himself looking forward to the prospect of sitting in the hospital gardens. He was certain Javert would want to go outside, Jean knew him to be a creature of habit and he would appreciate not being contained within the hospital building. 

Jean went through the familiar steps of parking, signing in, and going to Javert's room. He hesitated outside the door, books against his chest, and wondered what he'd be met with. 

He took a breath and knocked. 

“Aren't you coming in or have you forgotten how a door handle works?” came Javert's muffled voice from inside. 

Jean opened the door and stepped inside, immediately closing it behind him. Javert was in his wheelchair by the side of the bed, facing the door as if he'd been waiting. 

“Just wanted to make sure you wanted to see me.”

“I said 4 o’clock, didn't I?”

“Yeah but,” Jean shrugged. “I don't know. It's been awhile.”

“Now you're gonna ask me how I'm feeling.”

“Well?”

Javert heaved an exaggerated sigh that made Jean smile despite himself. 

“Too much therapy and feelings for one day, huh? I brought your books.”

Jean approached and passed them to him, but Javert only frowned. 

“I only asked you to bring one.”

“Well, I liked the look of the other one, and thought you might need something else to look at.”

“Right,” Javert said, setting them on the bed. “Let's go out.”

“No coffee?”

Javert hesitated. “No.”

Jean opened the door for him, and Javert's mouth set into an unhappy line, but he didn't snap at Jean for his help. He rolled past, and Jean followed him out, through the corridors and into the gardens. 

Javert came to a stop beside a bench and put the breaks on. Jean sat beside him and found himself to be more anxious without the distraction of coffee to sip from. He opted to remain silent and give Javert time to speak if he wanted to. 

Jean only lasted a minute before he grew too uncomfortable. 

“Looks like it might rain.”

“I don't care.”

They lapsed into silence again. 

“I mean- I don't care if it rains. I wasn't just… shutting you down.”

Jean looked at him and Javert raised his eyes from his hands to look back. 

“Good, because I did think you just wanted me to shut up.”

“Well, I don't. So you can talk or ask me stupid questions or whatever.”

“You look better,” Jean said, feeling his mouth wanting to twitch into a smile. 

Javert rolled his eyes. 

“You do! Much healthier.”

“Hm. I suppose I am eating and sleeping more than I ever used to. Classic irony, huh. My body gets better care when it's fucked up than it ever did when it was healthy.”

“But you never had this kind of time to look after yourself before.” Jean didn't think Javert would ever properly look after himself if he wasn't forced to, but he kept that observation to himself. 

“Hm. Physio is exhausting, and progress is frustratingly slow. Therapy is…” he sighed. “ _Therapy._ I have to talk to another doctor about all of _this_ ,” he gestured at his body. “I'm surprised I don't look immensely pissed off.”

“But that's not unusual.”

Jean chuckled when Javert glared at him. 

“I'm used to you looking like you're about to bite my head off, what can I say. But that's better. More you.” 

_Better than being vacant and frail._

“Hmpf.”

“Hey, come on. You want that coffee?”

Javert hesitated again and Jean stood up. 

“You've always been a terrible liar. Come on.”

Why was Javert reluctant to get coffee? He wasn't objecting to Jean’s company…

“Is it the girl? You don't want to bump into her?”

Javert grimaced at being read so easily. 

“I'm not a coward,” he muttered, and Jean wondered if he was talking to him at all. 

“No. You're not,” Jean said with the confidence Javert no longer possessed. “I've known you for many years. You were never a coward.”

“Weren’t you the one that said people change?”

“And didn't you always like to prove me wrong? So come on. You know I can't leave you out here,” he added softly. “We’ll come right back outside.”

Javert sighed, but took his breaks off and pushed forward. Jean fell into step beside him until they were back inside. He kept an eye out for the unusual danger of a teenage girl in the corridors, but didn't see anyone that could have been Eponine. 

Until they reached the canteen. 

Just before they reached the doors, a girl that looked around the same age as Cosette came out. She was thin, and looked even thinner in the well-worn black hoodie she was wearing that was at least a size too big. Her shoulders were hunched up and her hands were shoved into her pockets. A grimace of a smile curled her lips as she saw them.

“ _Inspector,_ ” she sneered in faux greeting. 

“You must be Eponine,” Jean found himself saying cheerfully. Javert glared over his shoulder at him. “I'm Jean.”

“And what're you, another therapist?”

“No. I'm a friend of Javert's.”

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You expect me to believe that? Full offense, but I hope I don't see you around until I have to, Javert.”

With that she stepped around them and was gone. Javert sighed. 

“That went better than expected. But let's just get the damn coffee.”

Jean did so, as quickly as he could, making sure to still keep an eye on Javert. As he was putting the lids on the cups, Javert had already turned around and was making his way back out. They did not speak until they were back at the bench they had left. 

“So. Eponine,” Jean said after he had taken his seat and sipped at his too-hot drink. 

“Yeah. Eponine. Not only do I have therapy sessions alone, I also have to have them with her. She doesn't want to forgive me and I don't think she should.”

“Both as stubborn as each other then.”

“This isn't funny, Valjean.”

“I'm not laughing.” He took the lid off his cup to cool the coffee quicker. “If you think about it, you're here for the same reason though.”

“We're not.”

“The injustice of her brother’s death is a significant factor for both of you, I imagine.”

“Yeah, _you imagine_ , you don't _know.”_

“I don't. You're right.”

“I didn't call you here for another fucking therapy session.”

“Why did you call me here?”

“For my book, you know, the _single_ book I asked you to bring?”

“Chabouillet could've done it.”

“Maybe I don't want Chabouillet seeing my apartment.”

“But you want me to?”

“I don't care what you think of me.”

“Ah, of course.”

The silence that expanded between them was an uncomfortable one. 

“He's visited,” Javert muttered. “It was awkward.”

“He cares about you.”

“He shouldn't. I don't understand.”

“Not everything needs to be understood,” Jean said gently.

“It'd be far more helpful if it did.”

Jean was pleased to find the coffee now in a drinkable state. Javert's remained untouched. 

“They said I should have something to make me comfortable. Something calming. Something I liked.” 

“Oh,” Jean said, to show he was listening. 

“The book. That I asked you to get. That's what I thought of. The doctor brought me out here at night to see the stars. I can't see them in my room.”

“With those charts you can know what's out there even if you can't see it?”

“I know a lot of it by memory, the basic constellations and planets visible in each season, but it's just… familiar to have.”

“I understand. I'm glad you asked me to bring it. You can't have much to do here when you're in your room, so I'm glad I brought the other one too. I could bring you other books to read if you wanted something new.”

“I hate reading,” Javert replied bluntly. “Even the Sky Atlas you brought… I struggle with. I read the parts that caught my attention, and the images are informative, but I can't read the whole thing.”

“I see.”

Jean hadn’t considered how lonely and boring it would be for Javert here. With no visitors he was glad to see and nothing for him to do, he was bound to be trapped with his own thoughts, which would do nothing to help him. 

“As for _activities,_ would you believe they're also making me do art therapy classes?”

“That sounds fun!”

“Tch. You would say that.”

“C’mon, what's so bad about it? Creativity is good!”

“Paint what you _feeeel_ ,” Javert drawled, clearly impersonating whoever it was that ran the class. “What the fuck is that? What am I meant to do with that?”

“It's meant to be cathartic, expelling your emotions out of your body and onto a page.”

“It's annoying.”

“You don't like to paint?”

“I'm better with pencil.”

“You draw?” Jean asked, trying to downplay his excitement at the idea. 

“When I was a child. A pencil and paper is a cheap method of occupying oneself until I had better things to do with my time.”

Jean’s heart sank. Had Javert always denied himself every possible joy?

“But given I was at a table with art supplies, I sketched a chair. Apparently that wasn't ‘the right idea’, but it was a damn sight better than the mess everyone else was making. Maybe next time I'll paint a sheet of paper white to illustrate how I'm not feeling anything.”

“That's not true though. Clearly you feel hatred for the class.”

Javert barked a laugh. “Maybe red then.”

Javert finally relaxed enough to drink from his own cup, and they were able to sit comfortably beside one another. 

The first drops of rain hit Jean’s nose. Of course they could never share niceties for too long - clearly the universe was uncomfortable with such a concept. 

“Let's get back,” he said, glancing up at the heavy clouds. “Before we get soaked.”

“No.”

Javert's tone wasn't argumentative, but incredibly calm. He too was looking at the sky, before he closed his eyes. 

“I don't care if it rains.”

The rain began falling faster and heavier with each passing second, until it was a downpour, yet Javert remained. Eyes closed, face angled towards the oncoming rain, hair sticking to his forehead and rivulets of water following every line of his face. 

For someone who moments ago declared he didn't feel anything, he was certainly feeling something. Jean could identify. The rain on your skin after incarceration felt like freedom. 

Jean felt his own clothes become sodden as he watched Javert. He didn't mind. If Javert didn't care if it rained, then Jean didn't care about having to travel home completely soaked. 

“Come on,” Jean said over the deluge after a minute of the rain not letting up. “Before we get in trouble.”

“I'm sure you can sufficiently charm them.”

“I don't want you catching a cold either.”

“Alright, alright. That's not an appealing idea.”

They started to make their way back, but Javert couldn't get around as quickly or smoothly on grass. 

“Shit,” he muttered. “I'm getting mud on the wheels.”

When Jean finally made it to the door, squinting through the rain, he turned back to Javert. 

“I'm going to get something to clean the wheels with. Give me a second.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not sitting here, dripping wet, when I can make my own way to my room.”

“Do you want to track mud all through the building? Or wait here for the rain to wash the mud off and catch a cold.”

“They have cleaners,” Javert glared but didn’t make any further argument.

Jean held the door open for him, earning himself another Look, and Javert stopped just inside the doorway. Jean took this as reluctant permission to leave and shoved his empty cup at Javert for him to hold, before kicking off his own muddy shoes. 

“Be back in a minute,” Jean promised as he picked up his shoes, before jogging to Javert’s room, trying not to slip on the polished floors in his socks. He did look over his shoulder twice, before turning the corner, to make sure Javert stayed put.

He grabbed the first towel he saw, throwing his shoes in the bathtub, and hurried back. In his haste the door slammed closed behind him, causing him to flinch, and look around for someone to apologise to in the vicinity. Thankfully, there was only one nurse he had to give a sheepish smile to. He got back to Javert, sitting exactly where Jean left him, arms folded, dripping all over the floor, looking decidedly unimpressed.

Jean knelt at his side and began wiping the wheel in front of him.

“This is completely unnecessary,” Javert muttered.

Jean felt an old dread curl in his gut when he looked up at Javert, half expecting to see Javert frowning down at him with the severity he always used to, but Javert was facing away. Jean found himself soothed and smiling again. He was discovering Javert could be just as awkward as himself sometimes. 

He focused on the task at hand, and moved to Javert’s other side. This time he did not think Javert turned away, he could feel his eyes on him, but it wasn’t uncomfortable and Jean did not look up. 

When the second wheel was done, he asked Javert to move forward a fraction so he could clean off the areas that had been against the ground. Finally, he mopped up the mud and water on the floor.

“ _Now_ do I have your permission to go?”

“Yes.”

Jean followed him back to the room, and they couldn't avoid encountering a few nurses and patients in the hallway. Thankfully, two drenched men only earnt them some confused or amused looks, and Jean's attempt at a reassuring smile seemed effective at dissuading questions. 

Javert opened the door to his room and headed directly to the bathroom. Jean followed. 

“Pass me a couple of towels,” Javert said, immediately throwing them on the floor when Jean gave them to him. Then, he manoeuvred himself out of the chair and onto the floor beside them. 

“Javert?” Noëlle’s voice came from the still open door to Javert's room. “What's been-”

She stopped in the bathroom doorway, just behind Jean, to see two grown men that ought to know better absolutely sopping wet. 

“-happening?” 

Jean and Javert looked at each other and began to laugh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Bismillāh/Alḥamdulillāhi_ \- prayers before and after meals
> 
> 2\. _La Citrouille Dorée_ (the golden pumpkin) = _Le Carrosse D'or_ (the golden carriage) + _Le Carrosse Citrouille_ (the pumpkin carriage)
> 
> “Citrouille” for short


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aa so sorry for the huuuuge dealy :<  
> but I have been looking over the comments now and then and they HAVE helped. so thank you!

Jean had been quick to leave Javert after Noëlle’s arrival, to give him the privacy he would need to dry, change, and accept help if needed. His good mood would have soured quickly under such embarrassment, and Jean wanted to go home with the memory of them laughing together. 

He had taken a handful of leaflets on his way out to lay out on his car seat so that he didn't get it too wet on the drive back home. He arrived back before Cosette, so thankfully didn't have to answer any questions. He undressed, performed wuḍū’ for his evening prayer, and redressed in comfortable jogging bottoms and a soft flannel shirt. Even though the temperature was mild, the rain had chilled him, and the snug fabrics were cozy and comforting. 

He prayed easily and with a light heart, giving his thanks for his newfound strength and good spirits. His state of relaxation afterwards took him by surprise. His mind was experiencing a calm, peaceful version of shell-shock. His near-constant state of anxiety had long been normalised, and it was a rare day when he was free of it or other intrusive thoughts. 

Jean's mind was mercifully blank. He sat in his garden, feeling nothing in the best of ways - cleansed of troubles. He just sat and listened to the birds, who had ventured out when the rain stopped, celebrating the damp soil it left behind and the worms it had summoned. 

He remembered Cosette sitting on his knee, keeping very quiet to watch the little birds as he whispered their names to her. How he lifted her up to refill the feeders, and how her eyes sparkled with utter delight when they encouraged a robin to feed from her hand. He remembered when she would bring bugs to him that she didn't recognise, and how he would put the caterpillars in jars so she could witness what they became - moths and butterflies of all sizes and colours. 

She knew that everything had its place and purpose, that everything, no matter how small, was important in some way. She expressed interest in spiders and less desirable insects just the same as the butterflies, and Jean had loved her for that. 

These memories weren't bittersweet when they came to him, only joyful and affectionate. Therefore, when Cosette arrived home and found him, the concern that pinched her rounded features vanished instantly into radiant joy at his warm greeting. 

Even though Jean would never want her to be distressed, he could not deny how it warmed him that she might have been concerned about him sitting outside alone. Her discovery of his contentment fuelled her happiness, and her smile increased Jean’s mood tenfold. 

“What's happening out here, then?” she asked, taking a seat beside him and playfully linking their arms. “Is that crow causing trouble again?”

“I believe he learnt his lesson after mother and father blackbird managed to chase him off.”

“Good. Serves him right.”

“How was work?”

“Quiet, but good. And how was your day? You seem quite relaxed and headache-free.”

“I am,” he smiled, although it was somewhat strained. She wasn't calling him out on the lie of his recent headaches, she still believed the excuses to cover his depression, but in a way that was worse. To have her not think for one second he had lied, and to have been concerned over his health.

“I saw Javert.”

It tumbled out of him, a truth as a poor apology for his previous lies. There was no need to keep this from her though, it should not feel like confession. She knew about Javert now and she was doing her best to help. Cosette was surely entitled to be kept up to date on Javert now. 

“That's wonderful! Isn't it? Is he okay?”

“... Yes. I do think that he is. At the time of my visit, at least.”

“Then we've got to hurry up with the house! If he's making such sudden progress, he'll be here in no time!”

It was intended as jovial reassurance, but Cosette didn't know he and Javert weren't friends, that neither of them relished the idea of cohabiting. Javert just wanted to get out of hospital, and Jean… What did Jean want? He wanted Javert to be _in_ the care of professionals, not in his home, he had only offered that as a bribe. But Cosette was right. Perhaps soon Javert would be discharged and he had no idea how to cope with that. 

Regardless of how Javert would treat him in the privacy of Jean’s home, part of him was still terrified that if he left Javert alone for even a moment after his release, Jean would come back to find his lifeless body. Javert was stubborn, if he still had the idea he needed to die, he wouldn't waste a minute, or any opportunity that presented itself. Ever efficient. Then Javert would get the last laugh, even if he did so in the afterlife, as Jean was questioned by police over a dead cop in his home. He shuddered. 

“It's getting chilly,” Cosette said, breaking through his thoughts like a ray of light through black clouds. Her hand on his arm and gentle concern in her eyes again. “We’ll get everything in order and he'll be here soon. I'm certain.”

It wasn't very often that he wished for Cosette to be wrong. He hoped it wouldn't become a habit. 

\-----

Despite the idea of Javert leaving hospital unsettling Jean’s sense of calm, he did still pass the evening with pleasant ease and his sleep was restful. So restful in fact, that he was woken by a message alert on his phone. Squinting at the screen told him it was 8am - two hours after when he would normally wake naturally. 

Javert. 

> _Chabouillet is visiting today. He visits every Sunday._

Jean exhaled. No seeing Javert today then. At least one thing Jean was sure of was that Javert did not want him encountering Chabouillet either. 

He stretched and got out of bed, collecting his clothes to take to the bathroom with him, when his phone chimed again. 

> _You can come earlier if you still want to visit_

Did Jean ever really _want_ to go? Wasn't it just an unhealthy mix of obligation, guilt, and fear for Javert's condition worsening if he didn't? 

The memory of the rain came to him, unbidden. Feeling it seep into his shirt, cool and refreshing in that moment. Javert's head tilted to the sky. The peace Javert seemed to achieve, and the fragment of it that Jean had carried home for himself. Sleeping all through the night. He couldn't recall the last time he had done so. 

_What time are you free?_ Jean replied. 

_Javert is typing…_

Jean waited for the reply to come through. The indication that Javert was typing didn't disappear, he did not falter in his response. 

> _1? You can have lunch here or something_

A small, disbelieving, burst of a laugh escaped him. Javert was inviting him to lunch. Well, as close to it as possible. 

_Sounds good_ , he typed out, thinking Javert would probably snort in disbelief at that. _Do you want me to bring something in? Take-out?_

He pressed send and then added: _thought you might be tired of what the canteen offers._

The hospital did provide very good food - plenty of variety, as well as fresh produce. Even if Jean wouldn't approve of anyone complaining in the face of such generosity and service, he imagined a taste of the world outside might raise Javert's spirits. Perhaps he had some kind of comfort food he might look forward to. 

> _Kebab_

> _You like lamb?_

> _Is that so odd_

It wasn't. It shouldn't be, yet this information excited Jean and eased some of his discomfort of the previous evening. 

Lamb was a popular meat in Algeria, and not such a staple in the French diet. Hadi's recipes often involved lamb, and it was some reassurance to know that Javert would not object to it. That maybe he wouldn't grimace over Algerian cuisine. 

Not that Jean had any plans to share such things with him, but still, it was heartening to hear. 

> _Any specific requests?_

> _A doner kebab_

Jean smiled and shook his head as he made his way to the shower. He washed, performing the first wuḍū' of the day, followed by his first prayer, and he was still downstairs before Cosette left for work, despite getting up later than usual. 

He bade her a cheerful farewell and prepared to leave the house himself. He didn't have any classes, so his morning would be spent at the shelter until he went to visit Javert. It was heartening work that made him feel like he was helping in an important way, as well as keeping him grounded and appreciating the impossible comfort he had attained in his life. 

The alarm chimed on his phone sooner than he expected. He made sure to set a reminder to meet with Javert in case he lost track of time - and now he was grateful for his own foresight. He left almost immediately (after he said his customary goodbyes). 

As he drove in the direction of Sainte-Annes, anxious butterflies somersaulted in his stomach. There was an instinctive part of him that always wanted to flee in the opposite direction when en route to meet Javert, no matter how amenable Javert had been in their previous interactions. But once he'd pulled up at the Greek takeout and made his order, he was committed.

He didn’t have to wait long for such a simple order, and before long, he was back in _Citrouille_ , the scent and warmth of the food permeating the small space. The bag sat safety in the passenger footwell as he continued on to the hospital. 

He wondered where Javert would prefer to eat - his room, the canteen, or in the gardens? He liked to think that moment in the rain was some kind of breakthrough - the sense of calm Javert had clearly experienced - yet Jean could not forget the last time Javert had been so relaxed. That had been a result of a plan for suicide. Jean didn't think that was the case this time, but he couldn't be certain. 

It was strange, after leading a life which felt largely out of his control, Javert had always been the one thing he was certain of. That Javert was fanatical and doggedly loyal to the law and its hierarchy, that Javert hating him was natural and unchanging. He would always have rather seen Jean behind bars. 

Javert being an uncertain entity was unsettling, as if some balance of the world had been tipped. He could no longer predict Javert’s behaviour, and for such a rigid man to lose his sense of self, it made his mania and mood swings appear more extreme. 

Jean took reassurance in the messages Javert had sent, how easy and conversational they were. It definitely _felt_ like progress, but Jean knew he had to be a realist. Javert was bound to fall backwards a few times - recovery was rarely a smooth upward climb. 

He checked himself in at the front desk, took his visitor badge, and went down the hall to Javert's room, greasy paper bag in hand. Three knocks and then he opened the door. 

“Hey,” he greeted, forever uncertain of his welcome. 

“Fuck, that smells good.”

Jean felt his lips pull into a smile. "I'm glad. Are we eating in here?"

Javert was waiting at the small table, folding away one of his star charts. 

"Yeah."

"I'll go and get the drinks then," Jean said, depositing the bag on the table.

Javert didn't voice any protest as Jean left - Jean always expected him to be contrary on principle when an ex con was making decisions for him. He reminded himself again not to get carried away with the idea of progress. 

He prepared their usual coffee, and pocketed paper towels and some of the plastic cutlery. He hoped that wouldn't be a problem, it was plastic after all and he didn't intend on leaving it in Javert's room when they were finished, just in case. 

Upon his return, he discovered Javert had unpacked their food from the bag, but had left the kebabs in their paper wrapping. The large portion of chips were unwrapped in the centre of the table, and one foil box beside each of the kebabs. It was as far from decadence as one could get and yet this humble gold and silver offering felt like its own kind of riches. 

Javert looked up as soon as Jean entered, chip halfway between the pot of chilli sauce and his mouth. He ate it before he murmured his thanks and Jean took the seat opposite. Jean laid out some paper towels as a makeshift placemat, and slid the rest to the centre of the table for Javert to do the same.

"I can't remember the last time I had a kebab," Jean wondered as he set to unwrapping it.

"Me neither," Javert said as he followed suit. Had he been waiting for Jean to arrive before he started eating it? "The last long case I suppose."

"Ah. It's a reward for finally closing an arduous case then?"

Javert's nose wrinkled at the suggestion. 

"I don't have time to eat when I'm busy. This," he said, holding up his pitta stuffed with dark flakes of meat, "is substantial. And cheap. Enough to keep me going."

"Hm," Jean agreed, scraping out half of the meat into the foil box of salad and replacing its space in the pitta with lettuce.

As he poured the chilli sauce over the contents, he noted Javert kept everything separate - the salad remained in its box and the sauce in its pot. Apparently he used it just for the chips. He alternated apparently at random between bites of kebab, forkfuls of lettuce, and chilli-dipped chips. Jean was content to munch through his combination, and they remained in agreeable silence for some minutes, enjoying their food in their own ways.

“This room is going to reek of this stuff,” Javert noted after another chip.

“Shall I open the window?”

“Pretty sure it’s sealed shut, Jean.”

He rolled his eyes at Jean’s stupidity but this time it didn’t sting like an accusation. It felt almost playful.

“We’re on the ground floor.”

Javert shrugged. “Might still escape.” He raised an eyebrow at the half-smile Jean wore. “Do you really need my permission to laugh?”

Jean huffed out a breath that still wasn’t a laugh. “I suppose not. I just- I don’t know…”

“You do know. And I know. You don’t want to laugh at the notion of me somehow being able to escape out of that window, because I can’t walk - but it’s an impossible and a ridiculous scenario, that is, in fact, laughable. Of all things, I didn’t imagine I’d have to explain how humour works to you.” 

“I know how humour works, I just-”

“I know. But are you sure?”

Jean’s next breath did resemble something more of a chuckle. “Now that you mention it, perhaps my sense of humour isn’t well exercised.”

“Well, I suppose most people wouldn't classify me as qualified on the matter.”

"Oh? And why is that? I thought you were pretty sharp?"

"My sense of humour isn't to most people's tastes. Dry, I guess."

"Ah. Well. Their loss I suppose."

Jean got up to try at the window anyway.

"It's sealed."

Javert put down his kebab to give him two slow claps. 

“It's a wonder you were able to evade the police for so long,” he said when Jean returned to his seat. 

“Well, that sounds like more of a criticism of a sloppy police force.”

“Hm,” Javert frowned to himself. “It does.”

They continued eating, and Jean did not speak again until he was left with half of his salad, and Javert was clearing the remaining chips. 

“We… we are getting the house in order, by the way. Cosette and I.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yes. She lives with me but she has a boyfriend now so… I don't think she'll be around the house that much. She'll leave you alone.”

“Hm.”

“And. Well. Do you want me to start moving some of your stuff to my place? Like the rest of your clothes?”

“I guess,” Javert shrugged. The topic had made them both suddenly awkward, the concept of living together preposterous and uncomfortable. 

“Okay. Just… let me know if there’s anything else you want me to move.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

The awkwardness pervaded after the last chip was consumed, and Jean was quick to distract himself, putting all of their rubbish into the paper bag it came from. He would dispose of it outside of Javert’s room so that he had no access to blunt plastic implements.

“Well. I suppose I should get on. Clear out in good time before Chabouillet arrives.”

“Hm.”

“I hope it’s um, not too difficult,” Jean said, lingering by the door.

“Yeah. Thanks. Thanks for the,” Javert gestured at the paper bag in Jean’s hand. “Food.”

“You’re welcome. See you later.”

“See you.”

Jean left feeling warm from the food, and lighter for having mentioned their cohabiting - even if it had only been skirting the idea of the concept. 

Back home, Cosette was absent. Visiting Marius yet again. Jean decided to set to work on further preparations for Javert, and went upstairs to survey the spare room. Hands on his hips, he moved the furniture around in his mind. One of the bookshelves would certainly have to go. The bed would go on the side of the room nearest the door for Javert to get easily across to the bathroom. He sat at the desk and began to sketch out the floorplan and was swiftly reminded of working on quiet Sunday afternoons in his construction office, not needing to interact with anyone on such days. No anxiety. Only quiet progress.

By the time Cosette arrived in time for dinner, Jean had packed all the books into boxes and moved the bookshelf into her room where there was space for it. He was in the process of moving the rest to the other side of the room to where the bed would be situated. 

“Hey, Dad! Wow you’ve been pretty busy!” She said from the doorway after happily bounding up the stairs.

“I suppose I have,” Jean smiled at her, running a hand through his hair.

“Time to take a break,” she instructed. “Dinner, TV, and you can worry about the rest tomorrow. I’ve got a shorter shift at work, I can help too.”

“Cosette, you are a gift,” Jean said, stroking a hand over her hair with affection as they left the room together.

She punched him playfully in the arm. “ _Someone_ has to look after you.”

Unfortunately, this was more true than she realised.

\-----

Javert texted, and Jean visited, every day once again. Jean took the opportunities of using Javert’s bathroom to check what aids he had, and any brands or product details written on them. By the middle of the week, he had ordered the same commode seat that was positioned over the toilet, and the bathing seat that rested across the bathtub. He had asked Noëlle when he caught her alone in the corridor, if there were any requirements for the bed, and thankfully she reassured him that there wasn’t. That made things far simpler. 

Cosette accompanied him to IKEA to choose a bed frame, as she always had enjoyed these kinds of tasks. He remembered fondly decorating her bedroom with her when she first moved in with him, her excitement at deciding everything herself, and Jean’s fond bewilderment, knowing nothing of little girls at the time.

They left with a simple double bed frame, mattress and basic chest of drawers that seemed a sensible height for Javert to access. They all remained in their boxes in the room as Jean went to visit Javert and Cosette went to Marius. The puzzle of flatpack assembly was a challenge for the rest of the week.

It was indeed a puzzle, and he was as thankful as ever for Cosette’s determined assistance. It was fortunate they both had patience and weren't prone to outbursts of anger. Jean was amused imagining how Javert would fare undertaking such a task - he was certain pieces would be thrown about the room in frustration. He wouldn't be much help at all, and surely be certain every suggestion from Jean was woefully incorrect. 

By the end of the week, everything was in order. The house was finally ready for Javert to inhabit it, even if Jean wasn't. The time Cosette had devoted to the project, and spent with him, was now over. Most of her time was once again split between work and Marius, and Jean sat in the empty spare room they had refurbished together trying to hold onto his happiness. 

He found himself hoping for Javert's text. As Sunday had come around once again he wasn't certain he would receive a message. Javert would either want his company early or not at all to avoid Chabouillet. 

Javert had made great progress over the week, and it was difficult for Jean to retain his hestiance regarding his recovery. Conversation came easier to him, he appeared to be more relaxed, less frustrated, and less prone to mood swings. From the little they touched on it when they spoke, it seemed that Javert was participating in the therapy he was given. He was less derisive towards the art therapy too. He hadn't even mentioned his latest session. 

Jean decided to go back to Javert’s apartment to collect the rest of his clothes and his bedding. He knew moping around the house was no good for him, despite how tempting it was to fall into such patterns of self pity. He thought about texting Javert to ask if he had thought of anything that he wanted moving, but decided against it. The only occasion he had sent a message unprompted was when he had needed Javert to sign him in on his first visit. Javert had been pretty strict about Jean only using his number when necessary, and he didn't want to disrupt the better mindset Javert had achieved recently. 

His phone chimed as he was rolling up Javert’s duvet. Just once, just a message, so he finished stuffing the duvet into the bag before he stopped to look. 

> _Are you coming at 1?_

Jean’s eyes flicked up to the top corner of the screen. 12:45. 

> _Am I meant to be? I'll be late if you want a kebab again_

> _Yes_

> _Yes I'm meant to be there AND yes to the kebab?_

> _Yes and yes. Yes_

Jean found himself chuckling softly and shaking his head. His last look at the room, even emptier before, brought another wave of melancholy back to his mood. Such a bare and lonely space to exist in. He gathered up his bags and headed out of the apartment, and back to _Citrouille_. 

Once he was in the hospital, past reception, and on his way to Javert’s room, his progress was interrupted. Eponine was coming down the corridor towards him, and they happened to look at each other at precisely the same moment. 

Javert had not mentioned her all week, and her presence there had slipped to the back of Jean’s mind. Were they on good terms now? Did they still have joint therapy sessions?

Before he could tie himself in knots thinking of the most appropriate greeting, Eponine spoke. 

“Hey, gramps.” She didn't break her stride as she approached him. “Take-out? Damn. Smells good. What did he do to deserve this?”

The accusation was said in good humour and without bitterness, but Jean knew it to be founded in truth. Why did Javert have someone that was kind enough and cared enough to not only visit each day, but bring him things from outside? Why didn't she?

He rummaged in the bag, pulling out one paper wrapped kebab. He offered it to her. 

“Here. It's more than we need, you can have it, if you want.”

She accepted it in a hesitant and almost dazed manner. It was clear this usually confident young lady had been wrong-footed by his unexpected response, and her desire for fast food instinctively reached out before she could be suspicious. 

Jean looked back into his bag to get her a salad box too, but when he looked up, she had already fled. He still counted it a success that she had taken his offering, and entered Javert's room. 

"Who were you talking to?" Was Javert's greeting, eyes squinted in suspicion.

"Eponine."

Javert rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"Here," Jean set the bag on the table. "I'll get the drinks."

It was an almost exact repeat of the previous week. After Jean returned with what they needed from the canteen, Javert had laid everything out on the table just the same as before. Minus one kebab. 

"Did they fuck up your order? There's no way you just got this wilted salad on its own. Unless this is finally payback and this kebab is for you to eat in front of me."

"Of course not. That's yours."

Jean took his seat and opened the salad, which did indeed look rather sorry for itself. A wedge of lemon sat on top to give it an allure of freshness, but the leaves were still rather limp.

"I take it you won't complain, and would continue to order from them, endlessly forgiving as you are."

"They made no mistakes.”

“So, what, you gave your food away to a homeless person you passed on the street?” Javert snorted before his mouth turned downwards quite suddenly. “You _didn’t._ ”

“No…” 

Javert leaned forward at his drawn out answer, immediately sensing deception.

“ _Eponine?_ You gave it to _Eponine_?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Jean countered, feeling somewhat defensive as he impaled long deceased vegetation with his fork.

“There is plenty of food freely available here, there’s no need for your charity.”

“But you're eating it, aren't you?”

Javert’s lip curled in distaste as he regarded his ‘unnecessary charity food’. He hadn’t started eating, and Jean was suddenly afraid that Javert would refuse just to make a point. Instead, he shot Jean a glare as he took a large bite out of the pitta. 

“I suppose I am, but only because you brought it all the way here for me. But _please_ cease moping over that sad little box of leaves and eat a chip.”

Jean did as he was told, opting to dip it in the chilli sauce just as Javert liked to do. 

“Mm. That's a pretty good strategy,” Jean said as he repeated the process. “Using the sauce like this.”

“Yeah, _revolutionary_ ,” Javert muttered, voice thick with sarcasm between mouthfuls. 

An amicable silence followed, until Javert shook his head. 

“I can't believe you gave her your kebab, although it shouldn't be surprising.”

Jean shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “Are you two on better terms?”

“I guess. It doesn't feel like she's willing me to spontaneously combust anymore.”

“That sounds like progress to me.”

“We're not going to be _friends_ , Jean.”

“I'm not saying you will be. Any relationship is better than a hateful one.”

“Yes, I can see that you think that’s true.”

“Isn't it?”

“Hate is clear-cut. I don't care if people hate me. It's better than pity, disdain, becoming a joke whenever your back is turned, or a hundred other things.”

“You would prefer me to hate you?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Because that's easier for you. To justify your own beliefs towards me and yourself, that you deserve my hate. You don't.”

“Christ. Enough pseudo psychoanalysis, _Doctor Valjean,_ you'll affect my digestion.”

“Alright,” Jean disguised his smile by eating another chip. 

They did not speak again until all the food had been consumed. Jean had a strong suspicion Javert had left more chips for him to make up for the lost kebab, but he didn't think it would do him any good to raise the subject. Javert spoke before he could think of something else to say. 

“They say I'm doing good. Better.”

He spoke with a degree of nonchalance, as if this didn’t particularly matter, and certainly didn't matter to him. The tension of his jaw and the aversion of eye contact gave away his anxiety.

"I'm glad."

Javert scowled, as if he didn't believe it. 

"You should be glad too," Jean said as he gathered up the greasy papers and cutlery. "It's a great achievement - and don't deride that, it is. But I suppose I better get going. I hope talking with Chabouillet is easier now."

"I'm not sure about that," Javert grimaced.

"I'm sure it's not _that_ bad."

"Why don't you talk to him then?" Javert countered with a raised eyebrow, knowing full well such an idea terrified Jean. 

"Not a chance. See you tomorrow."

\-----

Cosette didn’t come home for dinner, so Jean did not eat. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence. At least being with Javert that afternoon had made sure he had eaten something substantial that day. It was too easy to push his needs to the side, even if they were the natural requirements of his body. If he was unfortunate enough to think before getting something to eat, or making a non-essential purchase, such as a new plant or novel, he would immediately conclude that he did not deserve it. Half formed ideas and desires were instantly scrapped, and if he were strong enough to go through with it anyway, guilt would hang over him for the rest of the day, at the very least.

Ramadan was a very fulfilling practice for him, despite his hesitance in becoming reacquainted with Islam. Knowing that his self-denial was an act of piety, that it was good and rewarded, served to give him comfort. Although he often went too far with it, not particularly concerned that after dusk fasting was meant to cease, using the month as an excuse to indulge in his harmful habits rather than to connect with his faith, the community, and the universe. It was fortunate he had Cosette to ensure he participated in Eid al-Fitr, a day in which no fasting was allowed.

Ramadan this year had passed in a haze, and it had not made him feel good. He knew why now. Cosette had been distracted by Marius and trying to keep Jean out of her affairs, and had not been there to cheer him up and make sure he had suḥūr1 . She always used to make sure to put something in a box for him the night before. It had ended with the protests. Fighting in the streets and in his home. His fuse had perhaps been shorter than usual due to his weeks of fasting. He would not have been able to deal with Javert at all if he had encountered him any sooner.

Realising now how far he and Cosette had drifted apart then made him feel her absence more keenly in the present. How she had slipped away while he was unfocused - that would not be truly repaired. She had fledged and he could not cage her now. 

The one advantage of a quiet house was that he could pray without self consciousness. He prayed, still grateful for his life, despite his hardships and grievances, for being given the opportunity to know Cosette at all. At least he now knew the person Cosette was spending so much time with. He would rather she talked to him about it, and he could not harbour any concern of Marius mistreating her. The boy was clearly besotted, and with his nervous disposition and gangly frame, Jean was certain Cosette could knock him out if that was ever necessary. He did rest slightly easier with this knowledge.

Cosette was always home by 10pm. They had never discussed curfews, but she must have known Jean would worry if she was any later.

As soon as she entered the house, she shouted a greeting to him, as usual.

“Hey, sweetie.” He wondered if he should stop calling her that.

Hearing his response always allowed her to find what room he was in and come to see him. He always loved that seeing him was the first thing she did when she came home.

“How was your day?” she asked, finding him switching the kettle on in the kitchen.

“Good, thank you. Yours?”

“Good! How lucky we are, huh?” She swooped in to peck him on the cheek.

Her final growth spurt a few years ago had made her a couple of inches taller than Jean, so it was now her that leaned down to grant him affection. The times where he would bend down to scoop her up seemed so far away now, but what a lovely woman she was becoming! He took a moment to look at her - how comfortable she was in her own skin. He was so glad of that, he would never want her to be cursed with the same doubts he had towards himself.

He knew she had been bullied when she was very young, when Fantine was sick, but Jean must have done something right for her not to have carried any of that with her. To his knowledge, she hadn’t experienced any similar troubles since. Who could say a mean word about such a gentle and thoughtful person? If they had, they likely wouldn’t get the reaction they wanted - Cosette had the ability to be quite firm when necessary. One advantage of living through harsh times, Jean supposed, was gaining the ability to stand your ground.

“Very lucky indeed,” he agreed. 

The kettle clicked off, and something occurred to Jean as he poured steaming water into two mugs.

“Were you or Marius close with that boy, Gavroche?”

“I’d only seen him a few times.” Sadness touched her features as she remembered him. “He was always rushing off, getting involved in what the others were doing. Marius and I talking to each other in the corner is not at all entertaining for a young boy like that!”

She chuckled softly, and cradled the drink Jean passed to her.

“Marius knew him better. He was pretty broken up about it. Bahorel knew him best, I think. Like a big brother or an uncle. Gavroche followed him around most. Why do you ask?”

“Did anyone know his sister? Was she part of this same friendship group?”

“Which sister? I think he had… three? Eponine was the only one we really saw. The others live further away I think.”

“Yes, Eponine, do you know her?”

“She doesn't like me much, we don't really talk. Why? How do you know her?”

“She is at Javert's hospital. I just wondered if she had any friends - I don't think she gets any visitors and it must be very difficult for her to get through this on her own.”

“I'd not heard she was in hospital! I don't think anyone knows! Marius would definitely visit her.”

“Well, it's a psychiatric hospital, she might not want people to know.”

“But she needs to know she has people who care, otherwise she's not going to get better!”

“Would you let Marius know? Let us leave it to the people who know her best to decide what to do, but she does need someone to at least send her a message.”

“Yes. Absolutely. I'm going to call him right now.”

Jean sighed as she really did take her phone out the moment she stopped speaking, and tapped away on it as she left the room. This time Jean had supplied her with a distraction himself. At least in this instance he hoped it would do some good, and he would not begrudge Eponine receiving help. 

\-----

He encountered Eponine in the hospital corridor again the following week. His smile was met with a glare. She reminded him of Javert. 

“You should mind your own business y’know. I know it was you.”

“What did I do?”

“Told people where I am.”

“Did it not help?”

“It still isn’t your business regardless.”

“I suppose not. But I was worried.”

“It’s not your place to be worried about me. Don’t do it again.”

She stormed off down the corridor and Jean hoped that her pride had not been too badly wounded, that his intervention would be appreciated in the end. He approached Javert’s door and knocked in his usual pattern.

“Hello,” he greeted as he entered.

Javert was sitting on the bed, his back against the headrest. He had not sat anywhere but in the wheelchair in Jean’s company after they first arrived here.

“Is something wrong? Do you not feel like leaving the room today?”

Javert tilted his head slightly and considered Jean. The scrutiny made Jean uncomfortable.

“I was just… thinking.”

“Oh?”

Jean cautiously edged towards a chair before Javert snapped at him for lingering. 

“Yeah.” Javert looked at his hands for a moment. “The doctor says I might get to leave this week.”

“Ah. That's great!”

Javert shot him a bored look. “If you really think that, you should be the one in here.”

Jean sighed. “It _is_ good, isn't it? Don't you feel it? More stable?”

“I guess. But I think they're expecting me to live with you. Is that still… ?”

“Of course.”

“Is everything, uh, ready?”

“I believe so, unless you can think of anything else you might need.”

Javert shook his head and looked away again, his shoulders bunched up. 

“You've been here awhile, huh. It must be… wow, it must be four weeks now?”

Javert nodded. “And five in the ICU before that.”

“Then it is good you're getting out. That's an awfully long time to not have proper privacy.”

“You managed longer.”

“It's not a contest. And I thought you said this was nothing like imprisonment and we were not alike at all?”

Jean smiled at the sour look Javert directed at him. 

“I'll go and get your coffee, how about that?”

“Wait.” Javert grunted, hauling himself to the edge of the bed. “Wait for me.”

Jean still went to the door, but held it open and waited for him. Javert rolled his eyes as if every small kindness was insufferable, but still muttered his thanks as he passed and they left the room together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _suḥūr_ \- pre-dawn meal before fasting begins
> 
> END OF PART 1!  
> wooo! (there are 4 parts to the story, not necessarily the same length)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2  
> warnings: mentions of childhood bullying/name calling/slurs. depressive thoughts probably goes without saying now

Javert could not wait to be free of the smell of sterility, the faint echoes of anguish drifting down quiet corridors, and most of all: the concerned eyes of medical professionals who saw too much. He was frequently restless and agitated, not being able to occupy himself as he used to, but he couldn't take his frustrations out on anyone anymore. Upsetting staff or other patients would only keep him there longer, and upsetting Valjean could revoke his only ticket out.

It was always only a matter of time before it became impossible to keep such feelings to himself. In these instances, his frustrations were aired during his therapy sessions. Probably the healthy way to do it, but he still hated it. Hated that they could analyse whatever he said and make some broad assumption that was only more irritating given how correct they were.

At least he wasn't so physically exhausted anymore. His physiotherapy seemed to be working, the stretches weren't so taxing for him, his arms were getting stronger and more used to pushing his chair. He even looked forward to the art classes now, not that he would admit it to anyone. It was time where he could be left to his own devices but have something to occupy him, rather than stewing in his own thoughts.

He even had sketching supplies in his room, hidden away in a drawer. Dr Valère-Martin had suggested it, handing him the sketchpad and pencil case in one of their private therapy sessions. More than anything else, Javert hated being idle, and he'd been stuck in a depressive cycle of inactivity for so long that he did not refuse the supplies. Now, whenever he was alone in his room and his mind scrubbed itself to be carefully blank, instead of sleeping or staring at the wall, he sketched. 

He didn't think of anything in particular as he worked, inconsequential thoughts flowed in and out and no intrusive thoughts crept in. Just the soft scratch of graphite until his body needed something or he was summoned to an appointment.

In terms of technique, it was surely the sloppiest he'd ever been. At first this was because he didn't care, and part of him even _wanted_ to produce something awful, as that was how he felt. But he found there was something to be said for looser work. It didn't require so much concentration, it was more instinctive, and somehow freeing.

Javert had always been something of a perfectionist. As a child he didn't draw stick figures and crude fantastical imaginings, he drew things he could work on replicating exactly. Lifeless objects, particularly man-made ones. He could use a ruler to make perfect straight lines, and be satisfied with the precision until he looked back on it with a wiser eye and saw all of its flaws.

He didn't bother with colour - that was a messy business sure to ruin a decent image, and he hardly even used tone. Shading techniques that might have benefitted his subjects and his style, like hatching, were too impressionistic for him. Shadows weren't hatched in life, so why should he add such a thing? His works were neat, utilitarian lines of pencil or ink. 

As a teenager, buildings had occupied his artistic attention. At least he could reason this study had a purpose: his art teacher at school (one of the few good ones), had mildly tried to encourage him towards the potential future of being an architect. Ultimately, he knew having such a goal was nothing but a fancy. Architects needed degrees and all manner of structural knowledge - who was there to fund his education? Even if there was some kind of scholarship extended to him, he knew, in his blood, he did not belong to such an institution. Such education in those days was reserved for the affluent or the gifted.

Presently, he sat at the table with his sketchbook, attempting to draw one of the trees from the gardens. He had asked one of the nurses to take him outside so he could take a picture of it, and his phone rested beside the page with the reference. He would have preferred to sketch it from life, but the idea of having the nurse watching him made him uncomfortable. In his room he could work in his own time with no curious eyes watching.

The loose skeleton of its form extended, and he found himself adding the bench that he and Valjean frequented beside it. This was produced entirely from memory, and he knew there were inaccuracies in its structure, but his hand continued anyway. Two rough figures were conjured next, sitting at each end, the space between them awkward and unnatural. The one on the left had his hands in his lap, and perhaps one could imagine with the angle of his head, that his face was turned towards the ground but his eyes looked up cautiously from under his brows at his distant companion. The figures were too small and sketchy for such detail to be apparent, but it was what Javert saw.

The figure on the right was a messy half-formed thing. He sat with his legs crossed and a hand on his chin, assessing the other man. This was entirely inaccurate. Javert had never sat on that bench, and his body would never be able to compose itself into such natural and relaxed nonchalance. Not anymore. He couldn’t say why he had strayed from the tree, and he returned to it, suddenly wary of the workings of his own mind.

Dr Valère-Martin, far too pleased with the success of her own suggestion, had taken it upon herself to research linework artists to share with Javert to try and encourage him. The anatomical sketches of Da Vinci, the etchings and engravings of Goya, the early works of Van Gogh, and the more recent, fascinatingly complex work of Berine Wrightson’s Frankenstien art. The latter showcased all of the shading techniques he had so woefully neglected, and how effective they were when utilised, and that something could be pure fantasy yet the effort of the artist was not wasted or diminished on such a subject. Da Vinci and Van Gogh showed him adaptability, how one image might have the most exact anatomy, and the next be incredibly loose, but have its own value. How there might be pages of studies - of just hands or feet - an important lesson that even masters required practice and that rarely anything perfect had been immediately produced.

Of all of the artists he had initially looked up (with more than a little petulant disgruntlement that someone would claim to know him, and know what was best for him), it was Goya that struck him most. The nightmarish yet satirical works that comprised _Los Caprichos_ \- it was believed his ill-health that resulted in permanent deafness had caused this turn to the grotesque. A renowned court painter who turned upon the blindness and vanity of that society, and offered dark scathing critique instead. Javert had to admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that he identified with such a man now. 

_The Disaster of War_ series made him more uncomfortable than the often metaphorical _Los Caprichos_. These works were firmly grounded in reality - the absolute horror humanity was capable of, and the poor souls who were caught in the crossfire. No sharp sting of satire here, only disappointment and anger. 

_Not in this case either_ , pictured a French soldier reclining with a smug and satisfied expression, almost as if he were viewing his own work of art. The source of his gaze was a hanged man, clothed only in a long shirt and his trousers around his knees. There was rarely dignity in death in these artworks. Sketchy silhouettes of more hanged figures went into the distance, and the expression of the soldier made Javert queasy. He knew that satisfaction of a job well done, of justice served, and although his own misaligned righteousness had not been so severe, he knew the institution he had been so devoted to had caused death and suffering of disadvantaged people.

Two of the images in the series brought Valjean to mind, entirely unwelcome. _He defends himself well_ depicted a white horse beset by dogs - some scruffy, snarling and feral, others fitted with thick, spiked collars awaiting their orders. Valjean had been hounded by his own people, only to arrive in France and be pursued by Javert instead. The horse was kicking and biting, but most of its attackers looked unperturbed, perhaps they knew he would succumb to exhaustion and be caught in the end. 

The other, _Sad forebodings of what is to come_ , showed a thin, pale man on his knees in the darkness. He was clothed in rags, his arms outstretched and his eyes raised to the heavens. This man did not pose a threat, yet he was going to die. It was likely the viewer was in the position of the firing squad. The man in the picture didn’t look like Valjean at all, and yet Javert thought of him. How many times had Valjean tried to be a model citizen, tried to offer peace, and yet Javert only ever saw him as a liar? Even now, it was difficult to accept the kind and gentle person _Jarrah Bouziane_ had become, and perhaps had always been. It was easier and safer to slip into familiar annoyance towards him. The consequences of his own actions were too great to fathom otherwise.

In his own picture, the figure of Valjean was made up of light, uncertain lines, only the first pass of the pencil over the form. It made him paler than the rest of the subjects, and more ethereal. This only became more apparent as he practiced his hatching on the tree, making it darker, more detailed and more present. Both of the figures were too small to show any likeness aside from the basic shape of their bodies. Valjean was wider, thicker set, but bunched up almost to make himself smaller. Javert was sharp angles and long limbs. 

He continued doodling, retroactively adding shapes of hedges and plants in the background to attempt different methods of shading. This meant the perspective was a little off, but Javert wasn’t focused on the picture as a whole, just what was under his pencil.

He began to get annoyed at his outlines becoming lost in the shading and needing to go over them again, and resolved that next time he would work in pen. He sat back before he got too irritable, following the advice he had been given (‘take time to recognise what you’re feeling, and why you are feeling it’). He concluded he was thirsty, sipped at his glass of water, and admitted it would probably be beneficial to leave the room too. He looked at his phone and was shocked to discover that it was 3:45pm.

“Shit,” he muttered as he typed out his usual text to Valjean, telling him to visit at 4pm. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have bothered with such a late message, and just written the day off as being Valjean-free, but his visits had become so ingrained into Javert’s routine that the idea of him not visiting had rarely occurred in recent weeks.

It only took a few seconds for the reply to come through.

> _Sure! On my way._

\-----

Valjean arrived like he always did: three knocks and then only opening the door wide enough for him to slip inside. Before, Javert would have used this as a mark against him - evidence of his dishonest nature, but now he knew it was the ingrained behaviour of a hunted man. He thought of a pale horse desperately biting his pursuers, who looked on, emotionless to his plight. 

He rubbed his eyes to dispel the image, and grunted his hello. 

"Do you need a minute?"

"No. I just need the coffee."

Javert glanced at him to see the briefest of smiles flit across Valjean's face, as if he was forever afraid of being caught doing anything, and that the possibility of his happiness could be the most severe of crimes. Valjean avoided looking at him directly for at least the first five minutes of their meetings. Javert couldn't blame him, he tried not to look at Valjean in the face either. It was still too strange to have this absurd companionship and so many ills still unspoken between them. Javert had no intention of speaking of them.

Javert followed him back out of the room, and headed towards the canteen. He had concluded some weeks ago that Valjean was not a cold-blooded criminal, but something of an eccentric introvert. Would he have been more expressive in his friendliness towards people if not for all the mistreatment he had suffered in the past? Javert didn't like to think on that either. In fact, he'd rather not think of Valjean at all, but he was apparently always lingering in Javert's subconscious, ever the irritation.

He avoided talking about Valjean during his sessions as much as he could, but as he and Chabouillet were Javert's only visitors, he did get questioned on them. Valjean was a difficult topic as he couldn't evade by saying 'I don't want to talk about it' (which, as a terrible liar, he found to be a very useful phrase). If he was uncomfortable talking about Valjean, they would surely question the plan of his living arrangements. 

Javert had to speak vaguely - he didn't trust the doctor/patient confidentiality. His simplification of events was that he and Valjean had been acquaintances many years ago, had not seen each other in nealry a decade until, by chance, Valjean had found him in the hospital. Javert was truthful when he said that there was some uncertainty and awkwardness, as he wasn't sure he knew Valjean so well anymore.

Fortunately, in regards to Valjean at least, there were more pressing matters the therapist believed needed investigation. His childhood, his mother, his work. He didn't want to discuss these subjects any more than he wanted to talk about Valjean, but as he had been told: jumping through hoops would get him out. After so many weeks under supervision, there was nothing he wanted more than to leave - so he answered, and he did so honestly, unable to answer any other way.

Dr Valère-Martin had another of her grand ideas earlier in the week - that to help with Javert's transition out of hospital, they should have an official meeting with Valjean.

 _So that everyone's on the same page_ , she had said.

Javert picked up Valjean's sugar packets as Valjean busied himself pouring out the coffee. Valjean had his coffee with two sugars, Javert knew this, yet he never supplied him with two. Three or four instead - a handful grabbed without consideration. Javert didn't think he should know how many sugars Valjean took, and yet he did. Valjean never corrected him, just gave his thanks and smiled as he pocketed them. It was annoying. Javert wondered how many packets of sugar lived in that coat pocket now.

They went outside, as was their habit. Valjean had said before how they were fortunate that it was summer and the weather was often fair. He was that terrible pious cliché of always being thankful for the smallest of things. Javert supposed it was the right viewpoint for him, but Javert still often found life pointless - from such a position, rain or shine appeared to be of little consequence.

Javert considered their surroundings with a critical eye when they reached the familiar bench. The bushes were not as wild as he had rendered them earlier, the grass not as long, and the bench wasn't situated so close to the tree. He frowned at it.

Valjean sat down and waited for Javert to pull up beside him before handing over his drink. Javert took a sip and decided he had to bite the bullet before Valjean started with any inane 'how are you-s'.

"My therapist wants us to have a meeting, so we are both adequately prepared for my leaving, or something."

"I see."

"'Us' as in you as well."

"Ah."

"To make sure you know everything you need to. Apparently she can't just talk to you, I have to be there to consent to what she says, even though I already have."

Javert scowled at his cup.

"Well, I do appreciate being informed. Let me know when it will be, and I will come."

"Hm."

 _I recommend telling Monsieur Valjean about your ASD diagnosis, but that's entirely your decision._ Dr Valère-Martin had said the day before. _But I believe it will help him understand you better, and it might make it easier to settle in._

Javert didn't see how it was relevant or why mattered, but if it made Valjean give him space, then he'd give him this information. He told the Doctor she should tell Valjean herself. Javert told himself he didn't care, and yet he couldn't bring himself to tell him. He put it down to not wanting Valjean's pity.

There was no way he would tell Chabouillet, he was certain of that. She had tried to convince him that it was good for his employers to know, to ensure he was treated fairly. Javert was of the opinion he was no longer an employee. Chabouillet didn't need to know.

She had tried to pry him on his feelings on the matter but Javert found it uncomfortable to admit certain truths even to himself. That even after his sudden and shocking display of mental instability, he still could not inform Chabouillet that he might be lacking. He knew his therapist would protest that having autism didn't make him any lesser, but it wouldn't change how he felt about it in regards to Chabouillet.

“Um, by the way,” Valjean muttered. “Chabouillet won’t be coming to see you at my place, will he?”

It was as if he had picked up the subject by telepathy. Javert grimaced.

“Absolutely not. If he still insists on seeing me, I’ll make sure to meet elsewhere.”

He could see Valjean visibly relax at the news. What an absurd situation, for both of them to be committing to something that made them so uncomfortable. Javert shook his head, and set to finishing his coffee.

\-----

The meeting was set for the following morning. Javert had managed to wrangle it as soon as possible to get it over with, to get out quicker, but also because he had realised the Perseid meteor shower was fast approaching. He doubted he would be allowed out in the early hours of the morning - the importance of a regular sleep schedule had already been hammered home countless times. He could not see out of his window either. Javert would just have to lie awake, knowing what he was missing, if he wasn't released soon.

Lying awake as he was now, the weight of the impending meeting pressing down on him. He hated when things were out of his control, it made him restless and anxious not knowing what to expect. Sure, he didn’t know how someone would react when he arrested them, but he would find out instantly. It wasn’t something he would have to wonder about and attempt to plan for a day in advance. 

He sighed into his covers and shifted position, squeezing his eyes closed as if he could force himself into sleep. Everything was out of his control now, his life was no longer his own. He lived in hospital rooms and had his days dictated for him, someone else would make the decision as to whether he could leave, and if he did, he wouldn’t be going back to his own apartment.

In his previous life, he would have given up on sleeping, walked to the living room and leaned out of the window to look at the city lights in the dark. The cool night air would refresh him, despite the pollution it likely carried, and he would go back to bed and find sleep much easier. Those days seemed so far away now. The idea of getting up seemed too much of a chore.

Before, his irregular sleep schedule was only due to his work - his working overtime or wanting to get through all of his paperwork. He laid awake with the anticipation of an impending case he had meticulously planned, not with moral angst and existential dread. Not with black, intrusive thoughts creeping in and smothering his brain, reminding him of all of his failings. Convincing him that he deserved his predicament, that he deserved pain. That everything would be better if he died.

Sometimes those thoughts were at least sufficiently exhausting to put him to sleep, and perhaps the rest would put him in better spirits upon waking. But the intensity of such episodes had been reduced through medication and therapy. Javert wouldn’t deny the care he had been given had worked, but would not agree that he deserved it. 

And so, he laid awake, staring into the darkness of a room that was not his.

By the time dawn bled in through the window, Javert was convinced he had not slept at all. As the room became lighter, he was motivated to get up. Getting up and ready took a long time for him now, especially doing his ablutions. At least he would be more than ready when Valjean arrived.

\-----

Valjean entered the room as cautiously as always, right on time. Javert wondered if he would creep around his own home in the same way if Javert inhabited it. 

Javert was sat at the table sketching - it was the only way he passed the time anymore. His subject was a familiar one - a chair, but this one was warped and distorted, splintering and rotten. He closed the sketchbook as soon as Valjean stepped into the room. He didn't miss Valjean’s curious glance towards it. 

“Hi,” he said, still standing stiffly by the door. 

“Hi. We're going to have to be more convincing than this, these people are trained psychologists.”

Valjean nodded, his expression grim, as if he were about to be sent out onto a battlefield. Javert snorted. 

“I’d say ‘just act natural’, but I think that's what you're doing. Come on, sit down. She's meeting us in here.”

“Do you want coffee or-?”

“Just sit down.”

Valjean sat next to him, hands clasped on the table top. Javert looked at the empty chair opposite. It was like an interrogation set up. Good cop, bad cop. Except Valjean was too good to be a cop, his morals were too sound. Besides, the person who took that seat would be the one doing the interrogating. 

“What have you been drawing?” 

“Chairs.”

Thankfully, a knock at the door saved him from further conversation on that topic. 

“Hello Javert,” Dr Valère-Martin said as she entered. “And Monsieur Valjean. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” Valjean replied with one of his customary small, nervous smiles. 

She took the seat opposite, her notepad and folder placed neatly in front of her. They remained closed. 

"This is in no way any kind of assessment or therapy session, I'm sure Javert has told you, this is just to help with his transition when he leaves us."

Valjean nodded.

"As you know, there'll be a lot of physical adjustment Javert will need to get used to, but he has told me you have all of the assistance equipment in place. That's good. But you both need to keep in mind that you might encounter obstacles that you haven't thought of. Javert, there's no problem in asking Jean for help, even if it's physical assistance."

"I know," Javert muttered, still not having any inclination to ask Valjean for help.

"If there's something that's uncomfortable for you both, that's not a problem either. There are many people that would rather have the help of a care professional than a friend or family member, especially with more sensitive matters. Javert has the information for this, if he requires it. You must understand Jean, you're not signing up to be a carer, if there are any problems at all you should contact someone."

She slipped a sheet of paper out of her folder, and handed it to Valjean.

"Here's a list of contacts that might be useful, I've already given them to Javert. Once he leaves, Sainte-Annes is no longer part of his recovery. We are in the process of referring him to a new therapist, and as you can imagine, this is a significant extra upheaval. Unfortunately we can only directly support those who are under our roof."

"I understand," Valjean said as if he were declaring some sombre vow. "I knew the adjustment would be difficult, but perhaps it's a little harder than that."

"Now, I discussed this with Javert earlier in the week, and he wanted me to voice these subjects with you, and make potential obstacles clear. Javert, are you still happy for me to do so?"

He shrugged. "Happy is far from the right word, but yeah, whatever."

"We've made great progress Javert, I hope you know that, and can feel it." She turned back to Valjean. "We've gone through a great deal in the time Javert's been with us, and one result of that has been that we were able to assess him for autistic spectrum disorders. Such things weren't common knowledge, or tested for, when any of us were children."

She said this even though she must have been twenty years younger than Valjean, highlighting how long such things had often gone unnoticed. 

"The result is that he now has a confirmed diagnosis for ASD. It doesn't change anything, he's always had it, but we agreed that you should be made aware as this transition to cohabitating _will_ be difficult."

Javert side-eyed Valjean, certain his expression would be pinched in pitying concern. Instead, he found Valjean's face to be serious and attentive, processing this information as he looked beyond the doctor. It was the face of a man who identified a challenge but would stubbornly continue on regardless.

"Clearly explaining any house rules, however minor, I'm sure would be appreciated. Having consistent mealtimes, letting Javert know your routines. What day you'll vacuum, an estimation of how long you'll be out of the house, things like that."

"Of course," Valjean nodded.

"You don't have to be precise about it," Javert felt he had to add. "I'm not going to flip out if you're out all day."

"ASD or not, it helps everyone to have some structure in their day. But for Javert particularly I think it will help him settle in much quicker, and also help to make him feel included in your home."

"Absolutely," Valjean nodded.

"Well then, if you're all prepared, I'd be happy to discharge Javert on Friday."

Javert couldn't recall the last time he had felt such a rush of elation. 

"You would?"

"Yes. You've been here a long time, at this point I think it would be more beneficial for you to be out. But please, Javert, call someone if you feel any sort of decline. The quicker you catch it, the easier it is to turn around."

"I know, I know."

"Alright. I'll see you at our session tomorrow." She collected her things as she stood. "Bye, Jean. Remember that list."

Valjean stood too, approaching her and extending his hand. Ever the diplomat.

"Thank you, Noëlle. For everything."

They shook hands and smiled. Valjean had offered that to Javert once, but Javert had refused.

Someone had reported the theft of materials from a construction site and Javert was investigating. Evidently, it wasn't the manager and owner of the business - 'Jean Madeleine' - that had reported it. When Javert had met with him, he insisted it wasn't a worry, and the investigation should be dropped.

Immediately suspicious.

Combined with his familiarity and resemblance to a certain illegal immigrant, Javert was sure that this was part of some criminal scheme. Selling off expensive materials and claiming them as stolen on insurance perhaps.

'Madeleine' had offered his hand at the end of the interview, apologising for wasting police time. Javert had considered the gesture a mockery, and rejected it.

Now he knew Valjean was just trying to deter any scrutiny towards himself, and failed miserably. Even after his illegal status was uncovered, and the wealth of fraud he had committed by using a false name on all his official documents, he always insisted the materials had been stolen but he wouldn't pursue the poor person that was so desperate for money. Javert had never believed him.

"Javert?" Valjean asked, standing at the closed door, the doctor gone. His genuine, kindly concern was nauseating.

"Yeah. See you tomorrow."

Valjean still hesitated before he left. 

\-----

Over the evening and following day, Javert realised he had left Valjean in control of too much. _Did_ he have everything Javert would need installed in his home? Javert didn't even know what kind of place Valjean lived in - an apartment? How many rooms, how many floors? He didn't even know the area of Paris he lived in, let alone the street.

As a result, he was terse and irritable with Valjean when he next visited. He didn't want his anxieties to be known by asking questions that might help to prepare him. He didn't want to be vulnerable, so he became belligerent instead. 

He had been on his best behaviour for everyone else, not wanting to fuck up when he was so close to his release. Needless to say, Valjean did not stay long and Javert berated himself for screwing up.

Valjean had the power. He could decide he didn't want this (Javert couldn't fathom why he had offered his home in the first place), and he could tell the doctors how concerned he was, that Javert was a lot worse than they had thought, and Javert would be trapped there. Then he surely _would_ go completely insane.

Javert waited for the punchline, for Valjean to pull the rug out from under him and reveal he had planned this revenge all along. He waited, ready for a fight, ready to go down screaming, all afternoon.

Nothing happened.

Yet still, Javert couldn't sleep that night. Valjean could still retract his offer the moment they were due to leave, and deliver the news personally to see how Javert lost his mind.

But Javert's anxieties ran deeper than the level of control Valjean had. More than someone else’s control, it was his own lack of it that disturbed him so much. He was always prepared, or tried to be as best he could, even for events he couldn’t change. To be completely wrong-footed and off-guard was his worst nightmare. 

As a child, he knew the street corners and alleyways bullies liked to frequent after school. His journey took fifteen minutes longer with the necessary detours, but there was one group that he couldn’t avoid. The street his foster home was on was a dead end, and three older boys, not old enough to legally smoke, lit up on the street corner. He knew he would pass them, he had to, but he could prepare for it.

There was no use fighting - he was a small, scrawny, malnourished thing then. Even if he had been bigger, he would still be outnumbered. He learnt the precise moment he needed to break into a run, duck and dodge out of the way, leap over the stair rail to the top of the four steps of the closest building, jump down the other side and jog the rest of the way. That way he only got jeers and claps, and started to get called a monkey, but this was at least more due to his actions than what he looked like (although it was surely derogatory in that sense too). That was better than the array of racial slurs, each week he was called something new because none of them were quite sure what he was, and what the _correct_ term of offense should have been. Certainly better than being grabbed and kicked. Having cigarettes put out on him.

All of those things were preferable to getting his clothes torn or stained. No foster parent or social worker would invest anything but the bare minimum into his care. He wanted to at least _look_ like he belonged. 

He did have some decent foster carers, but they were rarely affluent and by that time he had already put up walls. He believed the meek, gentle, motherly kindness was fake and he rejected it. Better than needing it and having it torn away. He holed himself up as alone as he could be, away from other children in the home. He had never got along with other children. After all of the therapy, that made more sense, but Javert still didn’t see much point in trudging through the past. Maybe knowing then that he was autistic might have helped, but he couldn’t see how it would help him now at fifty-two, at the end of a career and no desire for a social life.

Javert rubbed his eyes. Dredging it up _now_ certainly wasn’t helping with his anxiety and insomnia.

He stared into the darkness of that room for what he sincerely hoped was the last time.

\-----

The moment Valjean looked at him the next morning, his eyes softened with something sickeningly close to pity. Not sleeping for at least two nights was clearly evident in Javert’s face. He despised his failings and weaknesses being so transparent.

“Have you packed everything?” Valjean asked, voice soft and gentle, as if he was talking to someone feeble.

“Yeah,” Javert grunted. “Not much to pack.”

“Do we need to wait for Noëlle to come and see you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let me get drinks while we wait.”

“That’s unnecessary-” Javert began, but Valjean was already out of the door. 

He sighed and folded his arms. The longer he waited, the more he felt the pressure of some kind of impending doom. At least he had grown used to the confinement of the hospital, its people and routines - the outside world began to seem too large to fathom. 

Valjean returned, a paper cup in each hand, and passed one to him. Javert cradled it like a lifeline, sipping it every few seconds to ground himself until the doctor arrived.

“Good morning, Javert!” Dr Valère-Martin said with her customary good humour, the usual folder slotted under her arm. “Not long now, I just need you to sign some paperwork. And then you can get on home.”

“Not home,” Javert couldn’t help but mutter.

Her expression softened just like Valjean’s had. Nauseating. “Somewhere _homely_ , at least.”

 _Homely_ wasn’t exactly _home_ to Javert, but he kept his mouth shut, and nodded.

She took the seat opposite, opening her folder and removing the necessary documents. Her cheer was never patronising or cloying, and that made her bearable. She was sharp when she needed to be, which was often when having him as a patient. He had got along with her, become almost comfortable with her, and now he’d have to start all over again with someone else. He began to feel a strange sense of loss for something he had never wanted.

She passed him forms to sign, and reminded him yet again about services to call. He wasn’t really listening, couldn’t take in the information. He responded how he was expected to, and then she rose from her chair, Valjean took her lead, and they both looked down on him in expectation.

It was time to leave.

He pushed himself out from the table and Valjean picked up the bag from his bed without being asked. Javert didn’t comment on it, didn’t say anything, and didn’t look back at the room as he left. He didn’t stop until he reached the foyer.

“Well then, Javert,” Dr Valère-Martin said as Valjean signed out at the desk. “I wish you all the best.”

“Thanks,” he said. Not for the sentiment, but for her professional expertise.

“You’re more than welcome.” She could read him far too easily now.

“Let’s go,” he barked at Valjean.

Then he was out, in fresh air and too-bright summer sun. 

“My car’s in the parking lot,” Valjean said, sensing his hesitation.

“Where the hell else would it be.”

Valjean walked in front of him, leading the way, and Javert didn’t feel as if he had been flung out into a vast ocean quite so acutely.

He stopped in front of a relic from the 70s. Yellow. 

“Of course this is your car. How long have you had it?”

“Oh, many years. It’s the only car I’ve ever had.”

“And it still works?” Javert squinted at it with scepticism. 

“Yes. I can assure you that it won’t fall apart as soon as the engine starts up. It’s perfectly safe.”

“Somehow, I’m not reassured.”

“Come on,” Valjean said, opening the front passenger door. “I’ll put your chair in the back.”

Javert had never had to get into a car from his wheelchair, and he felt dread that this would be one of many firsts for him to experience in the coming hours. He reasoned that this obstacle shouldn’t be too much different to navigating into his chair. 

“Don’t watch,” he commanded as he pulled up alongside the car.

It was an inelegant struggle, as he expected. He felt that everything would be that way for him from now on. He positioned his legs correctly, and buckled his belt.

“Put it away.”

At least he got to witness Valjean’s own awkward struggle with folding the chair. Valjean looked up at him with something that was almost a glare.

“You could at least give me some direction.”

Javert merely shrugged, and continued watching until Valjean had tucked it in the back, behind his seat.

“Right,” Valjean huffed, getting into the car himself.

It felt confined and tinny once the doors were closed. It was too easy to realise a car was simply a metal box, propelled at high speeds when sitting in such an old specimen. The engine sputtered into life and the radio coughed out an annoying, upbeat, American pop song. 

“Please tell me we don’t have to travel far in this thing.”

“You’re being mean, _Citrouille_ is very dependable.”

“You _named_ it?”

“Cosette did.”

“Is she colourblind?”

“No,” Valjean smiled, but offered no further explanation as to why a yellow car would be named after an orange vegetable.

At least the interior was clean. Rivette had given Javert a ride occasionally and the floor was often littered with receipts, and the back seat housed empty shopping bags. Javert did not own a car himself, an unnecessary expense when he had no reason to go anywhere. He cycled. That wasn’t something he’d be doing any more.

Thankfully Valjean didn’t attempt to engage in small-talk, and the radio, although irritating, was easy to ignore. 

When Valjean finally pulled up, it was in front of a row of rather grubby, old four-storey apartment buildings. Not that Javert would judge someone on the aesthetic of their street - he lived frugally himself. He had more respect for people who didn’t live in wasteful extravagance.

Javert didn't bother opening his door until Valjean had got the chair out of the back and unfolded it. Even when he did, Javert still glanced around for any potential witnesses before he moved. Thankfully, getting out was easier than getting in, and he managed without fumbling. 

Rather than approaching the front of the apartments, Valjean began to walk down the street. Javert hurriedly wheeled himself beside him. 

“Where are you going?”

“The house is around the back,” Valjean said, pointing to the street corner they were approaching. 

They turned down the small street that opened out into a courtyard, walled off by apartment buildings. Back-to-back with the row they had just passed on the main street, was a two storey house, dwarfed by its surroundings. In front of it was a large, wild garden. 

“How the hell is this even here? This kind of house, in the middle of Paris?”

Valjean smiled. “I thought the same myself. That it must have been some kind of miracle. It was in a dreadful state when I brought it. Derelict, as were all of these apartments. But I knew I could make it into something perfect.”

His smile became wistful and his gaze distant. 

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh, only three or four years ago. We were living with a good friend before that.”

The idea of Valjean having any friends, let alone ‘very good’ ones, was surprising. Javert had considered him a recluse. 

“If you were so close, what made you leave?”

“He died.”

“Oh.”

“Perhaps you remember him, the man whose leg was crushed under the truck that day.”

“I remember the event.” How could he not? “I don't particularly recall the man. Are the rest of these buildings still abandoned?”

“Some have been renovated. This city is in dire need of housing, it's a shame to have it sit here vacant. But I suppose not many companies want to put such investment into something they wouldn't be able to sell as high-end. No companies are interested in making affordable housing, just maximum profit.”

His calm reminiscing had curdled into bitterness. Javert knew Madeleine would have brought up this entire plot of property and housed a whole community. It made him feel hollow. Responsible. The somber grey blocks loomed down on him in judgement. 

“Are we going inside or what?”

“Ah, yes.”

Valjean led him up the pathway, through the garden, up to the house. Once he opened the door and stepped inside, he held it open for Javert. 

Javert noticed a plastic ramp had been installed over the front step. He still hesitated before going over the threshold. 

The first thing he noticed upon entering was the stairlift. He scowled at it. Valjean really had apparently made all the provisions he could for Javert. Making his home as comfortable as possible for the man who had damned him and buried his career, who stopped him helping and housing hundreds, if not thousands, of people in need. 

Valjean’s kindness made him feel physically ill. 

“Through here is the living room, and through there is the kitchen. They join up at the back,” Valjean said, taking him through the living room first, entirely oblivious to Javert’s turmoil. 

There was a couch, armchair and coffee table in front of a TV. Bookshelves, table and chairs. It seemed as homely as the doctor had predicted. Javert passed through like a ghost. 

The kitchen was spacious and apparently well used. Not as modern as he might of expected from someone who had been in the business of building homes. The centrepiece was the dining table, not a kitchen island, favouring family and community over practicality once again. 

Then they were back at the staircase. 

“Your room is just across the hall to the left, opposite the bathroom. There's a wheelchair folded up at the top.”

They waited awkwardly for a few moments until Javert sighed in defeat. 

“Don't watch me.”

He pulled up to the stairlift and glared at Valjean until he turned around. He got himself in the seat, foot and arm rests down, belt buckled. He pressed the button. 

The thing chugged into life, whirring its way up, inch by frustratingly slow inch. Javert was certain he could get there quicker pulling himself up each step. He made sure to keep his eyes on Valjean and tell him off if he turned to look. He didn't. 

A chair was at the top, as promised, and Javert reached over to pull it towards him and unfold it. He got himself into it without issue and folded the stairlift back into its resting position. 

“Valjean,” he barked at his host, still facing into the kitchen. 

Valjean looked up in shock, his expression wounded, and it took Javert a moment to realise he was reacting to the choice of name. 

He had called him Jean because he had to, for the necessary appearance of friendliness, but he had never _thought_ of him as ‘Jean’. In fact, in the first weeks of his visits, Javert’s mind had wrestled between all of his names - at first stubbornly using _Jarrah_ , but ultimately settling on _Valjean_. After learning something of Valjean’s past, it appeared that using his Algerian name would only stir up bad memories. 

If Valjean respected Javert’s preferred name, then Javert should do the same. He certainly didn't want Valjean calling _him_ Jean in revenge for his insensitivity. 

Valjean was up the stairs and beside him in seconds. Javert privately sulked in frustration. 

“That's Cosette’s room,” he said, pointing to a door at the end of the hall on their right. 

“Your room,” he indicated the door opposite. “My room,” the door to the left of it. “Storage cupboard,” the door at the left end. “The bathroom,” he pushed open the door to the left of the staircase. “The slim storage drawers are for you to use.”

Valjean showed him the bathroom, and Javert only glanced in it long enough to see the hand rails and assistance seats before turning away. Then Valjean took him across to ‘his’ room. 

“Sorry,” he apologised unnecessarily. “This was a study before. I've just shoved all of that furniture to this side of the room. Let me know if you need more space.”

Even with one part of the room taken up, it was still double the size of Javert's own bedroom. Javert scoffed in disbelief. He cautiously rolled through the doorway and Valjean passed him his bag. 

“I'll let you put your stuff away. Do you want a drink? Tea, coffee?”

Javert shook his head. “I need to sleep.”

“Alright. I'll check in on you for lunch.”

Javert said nothing to that and Valjean retreated. Javert remained until he heard Valjean going back down the stairs. 

He started packing his meagre possessions from the hospital into the chest of draws, to find the rest of his wardrobe that had been in his apartment neatly folded in there. He swallowed the bile in his throat, hurriedly shoving the last of his clothes in and closing the draws. 

Then, he turned to the bed and pulled back the cover. Stars revealed themselves to him under the navy blue. His bedding. Exactly as he made it. He squeezed his eyes shut. Valjean’s kindness felt like torture, excruciating and uncomfortable as it was. 

He took his shoes off and got in, fully clothed, huddling under the duvet. The smell of it was familiar. The room was far too bright with its large windows, but it wasn't the darkness of the hospital that he stared into. It was different, yet he was grounded by his few possessions. 

He closed his eyes, and mercifully found sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Art for this chapter!](https://justanotherwheatfieldwithcrows.tumblr.com/post/638614477108117504/so-i-have-been-reading-the-fic-all-is-not-lost)
> 
> woo progress, finally!  
> to counteract any disappointment later, I'll tell you now that Part 2 alternates between valjean and javert POV chapters, so the next chapter will be back to Valjean  
> however, I'm all about fair distribution of POVs so Javert will get a later section to himself like valjean did. there are Reasons for this structure
> 
> also, Valjean's house is inspired by a real place, but not exactly the same (certainly sans the 30 year old corpse..).  
> Rue oudinot is the modern name of rue plumet, so this house is incredibly perfect  
> [view from the street](https://danielfeau.com/en/news/article/3576)  
> [front view of house](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/aug/10/thirty-year-old-corpse-discovered-cellar-35m-paris-mansion)


	10. Chapter 10

Jean went up to what was now Javert's room at lunchtime, as promised. He tapped lightly on the door, which he had pulled almost closed when he had left earlier. There was no answer, and Jean pushed the door open, fearing what he would be met with. 

Javert was fast asleep.

Jean heaved a sigh of relief. He was reluctant to wake him - Javert had looked like he'd not slept at all over the past two days Jean had seen him. Javert needed this, likely more than he needed refreshment. Jean backed out of the room, closing the door to a sliver once more. 

He had taken the day off all of his usual duties, as he wanted to supervise Javert. Jean didn't want him to be alone on his first day in a strange place. He wasn't quite sure what to do for the following week. As much as leaving Javert alone would worry him, he would have to continue working. 

For now, it was the weekend, and for the next two days Jean could use that as an excuse as to why he was at home. He hoped that would be long enough to gauge Javert's mood, and if it was safe to leave him alone.

Jean checked on him again after an hour to find him still asleep. The following hour was the same, and Jean decided Javert really ought to at least hydrate. He _would_ be in a terrible mood upon waking otherwise.

Jean retreated back to the kitchen to fill a glass of water, before going back to Javert's bedside. He stood, tense and awkward, unsure of how to wake Javert. The dark rings under his eyes still persisted, his breaths deep and silent. White flakes of dried saliva clung to the corner of his mouth. It felt exceptionally cruel to wake him from the unconscious peace he had finally achieved and into his fraught and difficult struggle of life.

"Javert?" He attempted softly. Javert did not rouse.

Jean cleared his throat. "Javert?"

Louder this time, enough to make Jean wince in the quiet of the room. There was still no response and Jean began to panic. Had Javert taken medication? Sedated himself somehow? Overdosed? Was he in some kind of coma?

He grabbed Javert's bony shoulder and shook him.

Javert snorted awake with a start, making Jean jump in turn and spill water onto the bedcovers. Javert's eyes darted around the room, defensive, panicked, and confused.

"I'm sorry," Jean said, resting his hand over his own racing heart. "You were so out of it, you scared me for a second."

"Well you certainly got your revenge," Javert grumbled, folding his arms and retaining his defensive wariness.

"You've been asleep for hours. I'm not sure when you last ate or drank at the hospital, I thought you should at least drink this."

He offered Javert the glass, which he accepted with both hands. He gulped down half of it readily.

"Are you hungry?"

Javert rubbed his brow. "I don't know. Maybe. I should probably..." he hesitated, clearly regretting starting this last thought out loud. "... sort some stuff out in the bathroom."

He grimaced to himself at the thought of this required chore, and Jean stepped back towards the door.

"Bathroom's just across the hall," he reminded him gently, as Javert still appeared to be in a state of overwhelmed confusion. "I'll get you something to eat for when you're ready."

Jean slipped back out of the room, and hurried down the stairs to give Javert the time, space and privacy he needed to get up. He stood in the kitchen, hands on his hips, and frowned at the counter. What did Javert eat? Did he have allergies or particular dislikes? Didn't some autistic people just want to eat the same thing all the time?

If Jean allowed himself lunch, it would usually be couscous with leftover meat and vegetables from the previous night's dinner. He did not know if that would be appetising for Javert, although it would be healthy for him. Jean decided a simple baguette would be the safest option, and went to consult the fridge as to what it should contain.

Cheese. He had cheese, but that alone didn't seem enough. Ham and cheese would have been a safe bet, a common combination, but Jean did not ever purchase pig meat. 

There was some chicken. Jean often cooked up more meat than was required for a meal so that it could be incorporated into the dinners over the next few days. He enjoyed cooking but sometimes, after a day of running around doing his various duties, or a day spent battling a brain full of bad thoughts, he was too exhausted for it. If some of the ingredients were prepared in advance, it made the task much simpler.

He instinctively wanted to coat the strips in spice - perhaps tikka spice mix, but was wary of Javert's unknown taste preferences. Better to keep it bland, even though it felt wrong to do so. 

Bread, meat, and cheese cut and assembled, Jean placed the baguette under the grill. Hopefully the texture of warm bread, infused with melted butter, and the hot cheese rendered stringy, binding the delicate strips of meat together, all contained by a firm, crisp crust, would make up for the lack of flavour. 

Jean brewed coffee while he waited for the cheese to melt to an acceptable consistency. He did not often drink coffee himself at home, but rather black or mint tea. The coffee was there if he needed the kick or the bitterness, but most importantly it remained just for its scent. Jean didn't need to drink it, he could just lift the lid on the jar of those dark roasted ground beans, and be fondly reminded of Hadi.

He prepared it how Hadi had done, without thinking. Putting a little cinnamon into the coffee grounds and orange blossom water into the jug. It was only when he had the little bottle of vanilla extract in his hand did he realise what he was doing. He reasoned it was too late now, and if he had added the rest, he might as well add the final ingredient.

One mug of steaming black coffee and a plate of freshly prepared baguette in his hands, Jean ascended the stairs. The bathroom door was closed, meaning occupied, so Jean was able to enter the bedroom without hesitation. It was strange for him to think of it as a bedroom, when he still pictured it as the library and study it had been previously.

He set the plate and mug on the chest of drawers by the bed, and hoped Javert would be able to reach them easily. There he hesitated, standing by the bedside. He was forever hesitating over most things in his life it seemed, but especially now, and especially with Javert.

Should he leave and let Javert discover his offerings alone? They had to talk sometime, and the sooner they discussed food, the easier it would be for Jean to make the correct choices. Perhaps it would be too soon, too overwhelming for Javert who had just woken from a deep sleep, to be plied with questions as well as questionable food. 

He took too long in his considerations, which ultimately made the decision for him. He heard the bathroom door open and thought it would be worse to try and slip out now, and awkwardly attempt to avoid each other in the hall.

Javert’s expression upon seeing him was one of confusion. His customary expression was a frown, but there were different kinds and subtleties if you knew how to look. Jean had learnt to identify them over the course of his hospital visits. 

Confusion only caused a minor furrowing of his brow, his eyebrows pulling down and towards each other. If he was thoughtful, his lips might be pushed into something of a pout. Truly puzzled, his mouth would be slightly pulled to one side, as it was presently. 

"I made you lunch," Jean announced lamely, indicating the plate. 

"I see."

Javert had dressed in fresh clothes, his others in a bundle on his lap. He did not intend to go back to sleep. 

"You could eat downstairs but I thought you might want to stay here."

"Assumed," Javert corrected, but he shrugged. 

"Let me know if there are foods you don't like, or something you'd prefer," Jean said, stepping out of the way as Javert approached. 

Javert's frown distorted into a grimace. "You fuss too much. It is food, if I am hungry I will eat."

"But you ought to be-"

"I'd appreciate being left to eat in peace."

"Yes. Right. Text me if you want anything."

Javert did not respond or even look at him in annoyance, and Jean fled his presence once again. Back in the safety of downstairs, the house seemed much too quiet, Jean's ears straining to hear any noise from upstairs. 

He decided to turn on the radio, and lose himself in cleaning the kitchen. If things kept up like this, he thought, he'd at least have made the whole house spotless by the end of the week. 

It didn't take him long to settle into the work, the good manual labour of scrubbing down the surfaces and cupboards. Before long, he was humming along to every song without realising. His musical tastes were wide-ranging and varied: jazz, classical, pop, rock, anything and everything was worth listening to for Jean. Popular culture had been his main education, to people, the world, and to France.

Jean experienced the world through novels, TV, film and song. All of it spoke of the human condition, and if any of it spoke to him, moved him, or educated him, it was valuable to him. His interest was global and multilingual. Art really did show the best of humanity, he thought, and it gave him hope to experience it. Made him feel less alone in whatever he might be feeling. He was only human. One of many.

He didn't allow himself many physical possessions, as the idea that all homes were temporary was a hard one to shift, so to him the digital age of downloads and data was a welcome advancement. He could explore hundreds of albums, novels and poetry, and not have to give them up or leave them behind. He could constantly expose himself to new things, be it new releases on the radio, or books twenty years old he hadn't encountered before. 

Every discovery was growth. Every new piece of knowledge or appreciation was an advancement. The desperate, scared, ignorant and isolated boy he had been felt comfortably far removed from his present self in such moments. 

"What the fuck are you listening to."

Jean startled, slapping the volume dial all the way down, interrupting the lovely voice of Indila mid-note. 

"Just the radio. Sorry, was it too loud?"

It had in fact been _Dernière Danse_ , a song that Jean found particularly moving, and had been quite lost in. He had brought her album because of it, but sometimes it felt different for a song to hit him unprepared. He felt some annoyance towards Javert for interrupting and diminishing that tender experience. 

Javert merely shrugged. "Didn't hear it until I was in here. It's your house, do what you want. Here's your plate."

"Oh, right. Do you need anything else to eat?"

Javert shook his head, and Jean wondered if he would have said yes even if he were still hungry. 

"What kind of coffee was that?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry, it’s arabica but I put some extra things in there without thinking."

"That only half answers my question. Is there more?"

"Yes. You don't have to drink it though."

Javert rolled his eyes. "I'm asking you for it."

"Ah. Right."

Jean took the plate and mug from him, and gave him a refill. Javert had turned around in that time, and when Jean gave him the mug back, he immediately left the room without a word. Jean stood, bewildered, until he heard the whir of the stairlift.

He turned the radio back up, but kept it quieter than before. Of course the song had long ended, and all he was greeted with were jarring commercials.

\-----

Javert did not reemerge for the rest of the day. Jean wondered every hour if he should check on him, but thought it best to leave him be. When there was little else to do in the kitchen, Jean couldn’t focus on anything - he couldn’t prepare French language lessons, or even read a novel. After many aborted attempts beginning various tasks, he took himself out into the garden. 

He felt the passing anxiety of not being able to hear Javert if he called for him, but reassured himself that he had his phone. He had told Javert to text if he needed anything, Jean just needed to put it out of his mind.

Easier said than done when he could feel the presence of the Police Inspector in his home.

Jean set to work watering and pruning, until he lost all track of time. He was startled by footsteps on the gravel, and turned to see Cosette approach. How foolish to think that sound could have been Javert. He would never make such a sound again.

"Hey, Dad! I almost didn't see you there." She smiled, before casting a questioning look towards the house. "Has Javert arrived?"

"Yes. He is resting. Perhaps you will see him for dinner."

"I hope so."

"I didn't expect you back so early," Jean said with a grunt as he hauled himself up from off his knees. 

"I thought you might need help here, and I confess, I was quite curious to meet our lodger."

How little she knew. How innocent she was, to smile so sweetly and look forward to Javert's company. But perhaps that was how it should be, how _Jean_ should be: kind, welcoming and open to anyone.

"I'll make us tea. Do you have much left to do here?"

"No, I'll join you inside in a moment. Thank you, Cosette."

She had come home directly from work to help him. She had forgone a visit to Marius so that she could be here and introduce herself to Javert. He appreciated her sensitivity, and his heart swelled with his love and pride for her. He gathered his tools and packed them away, feelings as if he moved with a lighter step. 

The kitchen was empty when he arrived, but the tea had been made and both mugs were still on the table. Cosette had probably just wanted to get changed first. Jean took a seat to wait for her, cradling his mug.

His heart sunk a little, hearing the murmur of Cosette's voice upstairs. Of course she would be on the phone to Marius.

She was back in the kitchen far quicker than Jean had expected, an empty mug in hand. The blue one of the floral set, that matched the green and red ones on the table. The mug he had given to Javert that afternoon.

"I'm just getting Javert a refill."

Jean nearly choked. "You _spoke_ to him?"

"Yes. I was making drinks. It felt only polite to ask if he was awake and wanted one too."

She touched the side of the coffee pot to check if it was still warm, before pouring Javert another mug.

Jean felt like he should intervene, that _he_ should be the point of contact to Javert, but Cosette was already leaving the room. There was no reason she _couldn't_ take it to Javert herself. Jean waited anxiously for her return.

She came back almost immediately, and sat opposite him with a smile. 

"How is he?" Jean asked. 

"He seems tired. A little closed off and awkward. Doesn't talk much. Not yet at least. I told him he was welcome to come down whenever he wanted, for company or to watch TV."

Jean nodded, and sipped his tea.

"Where do you know each other from?"

He swallowed. He had been expecting this question, but had hoped it wouldn't be so soon. 

"I'm not sure we ever knew each other particularly well," he evaded. "But it was many years ago when I saw him last. When I was still in construction. Some materials were stolen and he came to investigate."

"Came from the company or the police?"

"The police. I had my own company by then."

Ah. He realised Javert being a policeman might be a problem for Cosette since the protests.

"He was on the other side of the protests?"

It was a question she already knew the answer to. She looked torn, unsure about the idea of hosting someone that may have hurt her friends, but possibly sickened by the fact someone or their side might have caused such severe injury to Javert. Jean was quick to reassure.

"Yes. But he was very shaken by the whole thing. He's even reconsidering his career, not only because of what happened to him but what happened to Gavroche too. Please, avoid the subject with him. He's still trying to come to terms with it."

She nodded, frowning thoughtfully into her tea. Jean trusted that she would follow his advice, she was sensitive enough to not want to hurt anyone's feelings. He imagined if she were someone more like Eponine, she would be right back up those stairs to demand an explanation or an apology.

It wasn't long before she was tapping away on her phone, no doubt informing Marius of this latest development. Jean hoped he wouldn't get anonymous hate mail intended for Javert coming through his door. He remembered that note he found at Javert's apartment, the angry, frustrated, hateful scrawl of it. He wondered again how often Javert received such messages and how they affected him. Even if Javert told himself he didn't care, surely it must have weighed on his subconscious. 

Perhaps his change of heart had been a long time coming. Perhaps he had turned away from the suffering he had caused for so long because he knew to face it would break him. Maybe that was giving him too much credit, but it didn't matter. Javert had faced it now. 

\-----

Javert could not be coaxed downstairs for dinner, he didn’t go downstairs at all after he had returned his plate earlier in the afternoon. Jean figured this was expected on the first day, and took his meal to him. Javert did not speak, and Jean left him alone. 

Jean tried not to worry, and spent a quiet evening with Cosette instead. He was glad for that, he could almost pretend things were how they used to be. She told him about her work, showed him interesting or funny things on her phone, and watched TV together.

Once Cosette had left him for the night, Jean was restless and agitated. He could not bring himself to go to bed. He paced the house, checking as if something might be out of place. He patrolled the garden too, and the courtyard at the back of the house. The only sound was the cool breeze rustling through the plants. He went back inside and double-checked the windows and the locks on the doors.

Was it just the knowledge that Javert slept in his home? A Police Inspector? Did Jean think he would hunt around and find evidence of wrongdoing, even though Valjean hadn’t done anything criminal in many, many years? Was he afraid to sleep in case he woke up in cuffs in the morning? He tried to tell himself these were ridiculous fears that were impossible to happen in reality.

He finally went to his room, but took one last look out of his window before he got into bed. A clear summer night, distant stars winking in the darkness. Silence. Satisfied, Jean got under the covers.

He wondered if Javert could sleep. Jean found it impossible.

He tossed and turned, gave up, turned on his lamp and tried to read something. After two pages of the first book he grabbed, he realised he had no idea of what he’d read. Frustrated, he closed it and laid down again. He looked at the time. Just after midnight.

He looked again and was disheartened to see only three minutes had passed. How did he normally sleep? Did he just lie down and close his eyes? That seemed impossible. Everything felt wrong, his position, the pillow, his breathing.

 _You think too much_ , he scolded himself. _Just stop thinking._

He played _Dernière Danse_ in his head, trying to recall the lyrics. He was asleep before the second chorus.

\-----

Jean had not slept well and Javert still didn't emerge from his room for the entirety of the day. Jean, lacking his usual patience, left him alone. He brought him toast and coffee for breakfast and didn’t even wish him good morning. He didn’t continually provide him drinks - Javert could get water from the bathroom if he was so averse to going downstairs, but Jean hoped to coax him out. 

Unfortunately, Javert was stubborn as a mule. Jean was not cruel, he gave in at lunchtime and ferried another meal up to him. He received no thanks for it, or for the coffee. Jean was at a loss.

As Jean had predicted, he spent his time cleaning the house while Cosette was at work. This time he focused on clearing all of the paperwork and resources for his lessons, which he had dumped in his room from the study. There was much that needed throwing away, and sorting through it was long overdue. He wanted to be within earshot of Javert’s room. He couldn’t say why he was feeling more paranoid about Javert than the day before; perhaps because he remained sullen and mute well into his second day in Jean’s home?

Thankfully, Cosette had a shorter shift that day, and Jean allowed himself to remain downstairs once she was in the house. Cosette, the brave and kind person that she was, still provided Javert with refills of coffee, but perhaps not with the same enthusiasm and frequency as she might have done when ignorant of Javert's occupation. 

Jean decided not to agonise over dinner. Javert had said food was food, and that he'd eat what was given to him, so Jean tried his best not to think about it. Javert _had_ eaten everything given to him so far, which was the only positive thing he could say about Javert’s condition. He still did something simple: wild rice with finely flaked tuna that had been marinated in lime juice and coriander, mixed with diced vegetables of all colours - sweet red peppers, green beans, artichoke antipasti, garnished with toasted pine nuts and sliced boiled egg dusted with paprika.

He carried it up to Javert's room with a fresh mug of coffee with some trepidation. Jean hadn't seen him since he brought him lunch hours ago. As much as he was relieved at not having to awkwardly sit around the dinner table with Javert, he knew it probably would have been better for them both to do so. But he couldn't force Javert out of his room, and he didn't imagine Javert would attend dinner downstairs willingly. 

In time, things would get easier. For both of them. Tomorrow would be a little brighter than today, and in a week, who knew? Maybe it would be easier to breathe.

Javert was still in bed. Not surprising, but Jean had hoped he might have gone to the window or sat at the desk to sketch. He shouldn't expect so much so soon. Jean knew how weighted a body could feel on a bed, trapped in a stupor of its own making.

"Javert? I have made dinner. I did not know if you'd be ready to come down, so I've brought it up."

Javert regarded him sullenly from under his brows. He still looked so tired, despite the rest and the amount of coffee consumed. The malaise of inactivity. A difficult thing to break.

"Here." Jean passed him the bowl and fork, before setting the mug on the chest of drawers. 

Javert poked at the rice with his fork with a grimace. Because it seemed unappetising to him, or because he didn't feel hungry, Jean couldn’t know. Jean waited for some indication, total rejection or maybe even a thank you, but nothing came. Javert didn't even look at him again.

"Well. I hope it's satisfactory," Jean tried to say as pleasantly as he could, pushing away his frustration. "I hope you might join us tomorrow. Let me, or Cosette, know if you need anything else."

Still nothing. Javert just poked the quarters of egg around, rolling them off to the sides. Jean sighed and left him to it. Either there would be an empty bowl offered later, or Javert would stubbornly spend the night with a bowl of cold rice.

Dinner with Cosette was welcome though. She had brightened since their talk the previous afternoon, but neither of them mentioned Javert - the elephant in the spare room. 

She even watched TV again with him after, curled up on her side of the couch with her feet resting against his thigh. When she excused herself to go to bed early, Jean was not saddened in the knowledge that she would go to her room and talk to her friends online for the next hour or two before she actually slept.

Jean retired to bed not long after she had gone upstairs, committed to his final prayer and burrowed beneath the duvet. He thought of Javert across the hall. Was he asleep, or staring at the ceiling as he had slept too much during the day and screwed up his sleep schedule? Now he had laid down, Jean was suddenly aware of his own exhaustion after two days of anxiety and busy distractions.

He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting in the darkness. He saw the wall, and through the wall, and the next. He saw the obscure shape of Javert's bed, and the lumpy shape resting there. Jean couldn't move, only watch. He wondered, detached from emotion, if Javert was breathing. The shape of him was still, like a pillow-stuffed decoy.

Then, there was rapid, unnatural movement. Javert's static form turning with a flop, like a large, heavy fish dumped ashore. His white eyes glowed in the darkness, staring back at Jean, and a shrill, inhuman shriek split the silence.

Jean awoke, panting and fearful. He glanced cautiously at the wall, not yet realising he had woken from a dream. He couldn't even discern the wall in the dark, let alone through it. He sighed and attempted to relax. He didn't know which was worse, closing his eyes or looking into the darkness. He doubted he would find sleep again. 

He crept across the hall on silent feet to Javert's room. When he pushed open the door, his nose was assaulted with a smell reminiscent of stagnant pond water. He bare foot squelched into the sodden carpet. Harsh, panting breaths made him look down.

Javert was sprawled on the floor, unmoving. He stared at Jean like before, with bright, glassy eyes. He breathed but he did not move, his legs laid out in uncomfortable angles. Broken. Lifeless. Undead.

Javert gurgled at him, a clammy hand gripped his ankle.

Jean groaned as he woke again, scrubbing his hands over his face. He rolled over and switched on his lamp, looking warily around the room and feeling foolish for it. The harshness of his own breathing unsettled him, so he tried his best to relax.

He sat for a few minutes, looking at the door, before he decided he should look in on Javert. At least for his own sanity. He pinched himself for good measure before he got out of bed. 

Across the hall, Javert's door was half open. Unusual, but perhaps it was difficult for him to close if he had got up in the night for the bathroom. Valjean peered inside. The bed was empty.

"Javert?"

No answer. Jean switched on the light and squinted against the sudden brightness. The room was unoccupied. He pinched himself again. 

Trying to keep calm, Jean went across to the bathroom. The door was open, so he turned that light on too. Javert wasn't there either. 

He turned the hall light on and saw the stairlift still at the top of the stairs.

"Javert?" He called again, louder and more panicked this time, and looked down the stairs. 

Thankfully, Javert wasn't at a heap at the bottom of them, but he was still nowhere to be seen. Jean opened all the doors, aside from Cosette's, as if Javert could have been in Jean's room unseen or hiding in the hall cupboard. He called for Javert again.

"Dad?" Cosette's concerned face peered around her bedroom door.

"I… Javert's not here."

She blinked and then chewed her lip in concern. "Well he can't have gone far, right? Maybe he just has insomnia and is watching TV downstairs."

She didn't sound convinced by her own reassurance. The house was quiet. The TV wasn't on. 

Jean nodded anyway and went downstairs, Cosette close behind. They turned on all the lights, but Javert was still absent.

"His wheelchair has gone though. His main one," Cosette pointed out. "He must have pushed himself down the stairs on his butt."

"But _why_?" Jean muttered in frustrated despair.

They went out into the night in their pajamas, although Cosette had the foresight to put slippers on. Jean went barefoot, the sharp gravel digging into his skin.

No Javert on the front path or the open square beyond. As they went around to the back of the house, Jean took out his phone, ready to try and call, despite Javert's previous assertion that he would block him for such an act.

"Javert!" Jean cried in relief.

He was sat at the back of the house, completely in the dark. Jean had a bench, table and chairs set up there for perfect seclusion, away from even potential curious pedestrians taking a look down the alley which led to the house. 

Javert had remained in his wheelchair, in front of the bench, head tipped back. 

"Dad, look!" Cosette gasped, and he turned to see her pointing at the sky. "There was a shooting star, you missed it."

"There'll be more," Javert said. "Until 5:30."

"Javert, why didn't you-"

"Shh. I don't want to miss any. I'm counting."

They all remained quiet, staring at their rectangle of sky. Jean wondered what the time actually was. He thought about checking his phone when a streak of light flashed across the sky.

"Did you see it?" Cosette asked.

"Yes," Jean said. "Did you make a wish?"

"I'm making one right now." He could hear the smile in her voice, and it made him smile too. 

They waited to see a couple more stars pass by. Cosette's slippers dragged against the paving slab as she turned. 

"I better get back to bed. I don't want to miss my alarm for work tomorrow!"

"Right, of course."

"At least put on shoes and a jacket if you're going to stay out here, Dad. Goodnight, Javert."

Javert didn't answer, but Cosette was already going back around the house.

"She's right, I'll be back in a minute," Jean said.

Jean went inside to do as Cosette had told him, and brewed tea in the process. No coffee this late at night. When he went back outside, it was with a mug in each hand and two blankets under his arm.

"Why didn't you tell me this was happening tonight, and that you wanted to see it?" Jean asked as he set everything down on the table.

"Because I'm capable of doing this without interference," Javert grumbled. 

"That doesn't mean you have to. How long have you been out here like this? You'll get a terrible crick in your neck."

"And I certainly didn't want _nagging_."

"Come on, you have to admit that's a bad position that will stop you looking up after a while. Lie on the bench. I have a blanket here."

" _Shh,_ " Javert hissed, and Jean noticed he had a notebook in his lap in which he was making tally marks.

"Listening to me doesn't stop you from seeing. Please lie down, I'll let you know if you miss any."

"If I do you'll leave me alone?"

"I'll stop pestering you."

Javert heaved a great sigh, but Jean didn't miss how he winced when he lowered his head.

"Keep watch then," Javert muttered as he turned his chair around.

Jean kept his gaze fixed on the dark sky as he heard Javert shift around. No stars had passed before Javert spoke again.

"There. Will you leave me alone now?"

Jean looked to see him laid out across the bench, and passed him the mug of tea.

"What the fuck. You tell me to lay down, now I've gotta sit up and drink?"

"I'll keep watch," Jean assured, turning his gaze skyward again.

Javert sputtered. "This isn't coffee."

"You'd never get to sleep if it was. But it's warm."

Silence fell between them again. A star passed.

"There was one," Jean relayed, and heard the scratch of pencil on paper.

"There," Javert announced, thrusting the empty mug towards Jean.

Jean merely offered a rolled up blanket in exchange. "Put this behind your head."

"Christ. You're not my _nurse_ , Valjean."

He took it anyway, eager to be rid of Jean's company. Jean threw the second blanket on top of him.

"If you had told me you wanted to do this, I wouldn't be nannying you."

Javert crossed his arms petulantly as Jean sat in one of the garden chairs and sipped his own tea.

The streets were quiet in the early hours, and the birds and insects were still asleep. Occasionally a car might be heard, but it sounded distant. That's why Jean liked it at the back of the house, the buildings in front of where he sat muffled noise and being so surrounded made him feel protected. His own fortress, walled off from the outside world.

The only sound was the occasional scratch of Javert's pencil. Jean imagined his eyes, bright and burning with comet-fire. Did he still long to join them? To tumble through the abyss and burn up along the way?

"-ljean. _Valjean!_ "

Jean startled awake when something soft hit his arm. He looked down to see the rolled up blanket on the floor, and back up at Javert who was in his wheelchair. 

"I didn't _ask_ you to get out of bed _or_ to stay out here. Go back inside. It's slowing down now anyway."

Jean stood and retrieved the blanket. "You'll go back to bed too?"

"Yes, yes," Javert snapped with an annoyed wave of his hand.

"How many?" Jean asked as they went around the side of the house. "Stars I mean."

"I don't know. I'll count them up in the morning. And they're not stars, you know that right? It's debris from the Swift-Tuttle comet burning up in the atmosphere."

"That's far less poetic though."

"It's _science._ You would rather actual, burning suns collided with our planet?"

Jean snorted. "I guess not."

He held the door open for Javert to enter the house, and closed it behind him. Jean reluctantly removed his coat, knowing he would be in the warmth of his bed soon.

"Please use the lift, Javert."

"Yeah, yeah," Javert muttered. "I assumed it would wake you."

"I'd rather that than you feeling the need to sneak around my house."

It came out harsher than he had intended, but Jean was tired, chilled and low on restful sleep.

"I'm watching it tomorrow too," Javert argued, pulling himself into the lift seat.

"Fine. You can do what you want, as long as you tell me," Jean hissed back, conscious of disturbing Cosette's sleep.

"Don't watch me."

Jean rolled his eyes and stalked into the kitchen, dumping the blankets and mugs on the table. He stood and waited for the whirring of the lift to stop before venturing back out into the hall.

When he reached the top of the stairs, Javert's door was already closed. Jean supposed he should be glad Javert hadn't slammed it shut. 

Jean gently closed his own door and slipped into bed. He thought dealing with Cosette's teenage willfulness of the past few months had been difficult. He could already see navigating Javert's stubbornness and mood swings would be far worse. 

The road ahead of them appeared endless, and the terrain insurmountable. Not for the first time, Jean wondered if he had done the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this feels uneventful, i decided it would be best to cut what i'd planned into 2 chapters


End file.
